8. A Story

Written ~ Feb 8th
And remember when I said that I would 'foresake brevity?'

One day recently, at around 1:15— the period during which everybody waits for lunch— I was in my hut listening to a podcast.

I had spent an exhausting morning collecting what is basically agricultural census information on my village. The Peace Corps requires it.

I am not a huge proponent to this kind of activity. First, it is weird to have to go around asking compound to compound, "How many people live here?" "How many women under 25?," "OK, yes, and um, how many papaya trees have you got in this compound," with a little questionnaire packet in hand, prying for exact numbers to scribble down in my stoogy little notebook. 

And second, most importantly, I don't see the point of this kind knowledge in this context.

While is fantastic to have a cute little spread sheet with numbers for each family and nice columns full of neat little data points from which you can compute the average number of mango trees per household, and the average number of kids per household, and how many people practice household gardening, this kind of knowledge, formulated through statistics is of very little consequence in the day to day reality here.

This is because life here (as with most, perhaps all places), is fluid beyond statistical compilation. Any appraisal of communities here can only be done with more textured knowledge. 

At first I could not understand why people had such a hard time telling me the number of people in their compound, or how many papaya trees were in their ‘jurisdiction’. It's not hard, I would say, "How many of your kids live here?"

People would go ahead and give me some answers, but there was almost always clear apprehension in their voices, as if to say, "If you must look at it that way, then 6 kids 'live' here."

People here don't always look at 'living' somewhere in the same way as we are used to.

The word in Jaxanké for 'to live' is 'xa sigi', and it also means 'to sit'.

I think this linguistic example helps illustrate the transitive nature of how people often view where they 'live.'

You don’t move to the burbs, pay a mortgage, sign up for utilities and start getting mail in rural Senegal. People do make significant investments when they build family compounds, and kids usually stay put for school, but there are far fewer underpinnings of permanence in life here.

It is easy to understand why.

Living arrangements are frequently inconstant here. There are at least a dozen young men who spend the rainy season doing field crop work in Dar Salaam, and then go up to Guinea every dry season to pick fruit (Which then gets shuttled back down the mountain into Senegalese markets). When they are in Guinea they stay with family, just as they do here.

Where do they live?^[1]

There are 35 Talibé[2]—Koranic students— from elsewhere in the Jaxanké world that study in Darou Salaam. Many of them sleep in a dormitory at the mosque and eat their meals with different families throughout the village on an irregular rotation. They move freely from one household to another and the work they do is communal. What household do they count as part of?

And most of the mango and other fruit trees throughout the village are essentially common property. They were planted decades ago, and provide fruit for all, and so do not fall into anyone’s 'juristiction'. Yet I have recorded on my survey that 5 households in DS have no fruit trees because that is how the question is structured.

So I just do not see the use of carrying out a survey of households in this way! It is bound to be inaccurate, and worse, misleading. But we— or the Peace Corps— seem to have some kind of fetish with numbers and statistics. We seem to think that if we can just get everything factored into the grand formulae of things, zee system will work a little better, a little more efficiently, and we will be able to arrange resources a little better for all. So the story goes.

It seems clear to me at this point that any useful, accurate understanding of my community must be established through far more textured knowledge. I am developing that knowledge as I live here and learn the language, but I will never be able to translate it into numbers.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes…

So there I was— listening to a podcast and sipping some coconut water. Just having a sit. And reflecting on this village I now call home, because I was about to leave for some meetings and trainings in Dakar and Thies which will last almost a month which is a very long time to be gone. I was thinking about the events of my first two months here, how I have succeeded and how I have failed, and what I mean to these people, what I must look like in their eyes.

And I was thinking about this boy that came up to me one afternoon a few days ago.

I went to shake his hand—kids love shaking hands with toubabs— but he only raised his hand limply, and I saw that he had a large wound on his hand and number of wounds all over his legs that all looked quite infected. He looked at them with detachment. I looked at him and the pus filled scabs covering his lower thumb and calves, and wordlessly left to get some antibiotics, a wet sponge, and gauze.

My last medical training of any kind was probably sometime mid-high school with the Boy Scouts, but the nearby Dar Salammis (demonym?) looked on as if I was a 1^st generation Indian-American physician fresh out of medical school, confidently welcoming a patient into my office. I said nothing, and, deciding to assume the role, fearlessly wiped the superficial dust off the wounds with the sponge and smeared anti-biotic all over the unsavory scabs and gashes.

Then someone handed me a few torn pieces of cloth that they had just picked up off the ground. I received these, feigning professionalism, as if they were aseptic dressings handed to me by an eager medical student at the top of his class in an upper mid-range private medical school in the Midwest who was interning at my practice.

I used these shreds of cloth to tie the gauze against the patient’s leg and the base of his thumb.

I imagine him to be an ambitious young professional clawing his way into the vicious world of Wall Street stock trading who had gotten into a car crash on his way back from a stressful day on the floor, suddenly remorseful and zen as he considers the damaged body he inhabits. 

Then the Senegalese boy dressed in a dusty old soccer jersey in front of me cringed in pain.

But he would never look at me. I learned that he is the grandson of my Master Farmer's brother, but that his dad is deceased. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him to walk around with these open wounds. Any action involving his right hand was probably quite painful. Luckily, I see very few people with gnarly wounds like these.

But, again, I digress. I was telling a story.

I was sitting in my hut, and the podcast was a RadioLab episode about colors. Do they exist independently in the physical world or are they a product of cognitive processing? The color blue is never mentioned in the Bible. Or any writings of the Ancient Greeks… Interesting.

And while listening, my thoughts drifted to the events of past week.

 I got back to village on Monday evening after being gone for the whole weekend visiting different sites, doing some work on the computer, writing an article for the PC Senegal quarterly SABAAR, and ‘watching’ the 'Super' Bowl.

As I coasted back into my compound I immediately felt something was up.

Something was different.

There were not many young boys around.

A couple of older boys-- late teens-- were hanging out, horsing around as usual, but something was missing. And rather than my three host moms and a couple friends two cooking and chatting in the compound courtyard, there were about 10 women there, chattering loudly, cooking, washing vegetables, and toting screaming babies.

I set my bag down in my hut and walked back into the courtyard where a couple of host sisters immediately began climbing all over me, as they always do, and telling me something about my host brothers. They said that they had just done something, but I did not recognize the noun.

"Where are they?" I asked, and amid the half a dozen simultaneous responses, I gathered "Keita Counda," Boubacar Keita's compound.

Boubacar is my counterpart. This means that he helps me coordinate work projects, and acts as a go between between me and the community. (The latter goal is hardly necessary in such a small village.) He is also, like all older men here, an Imam of some kind.

Tigida

 "Why?" I asked, and again met a confusing chorus of voices from which I distilled, "I be sumayaliŋ." This literally mean 'They are cooling down,' but it also means to recover, or in the context of sickness, get better.

"Bari dindiŋolu be jaŋ!" Screeched Tigida, who is my adorable 4 year-old host sister and has the voice of a guileless cartoon baby. But the little ones are here!

And I was then pulled into the building in my compound where my 3 host moms and their eight youngest kids sleep. I peered into a dark room near the end of the hallway. Half a dozen young boys-- 5 years old and under-- sat on the ground, and a few of them whimpered  and emitted low, almost eerie moans. Three of my host brothers were among them, along with other young boys I knew from the village. They all wore a similar outfit, something almost like a toga, but brightly colored, worn on top of over monochromatic undergarments.

The way they looked at me was somewhat off-putting. These are normally highly cheerful four to five year-olds, and yet their countenance at that moment was rather somber. Their faces were drawn and while they clearly wanted to smile when they saw me (Usually they would throw themselves at me laughing), any arching of the mouth was done with a grimace.

What was going on?

I had a theory, but could not be sure.

So I went and asked one of the older boys, a very cool Talibé student named Karamoxo. As soon as the words left my mouth a small crowd of older boys all chimed in at once using repeatedly the same word that I did not know--'Solima! Solima!'.

 "What is that!?" I asked "'Solima?' wo mu muŋ ti!?" And then, Karamoxo, laughing loudly with his friends, confirmed my suspicion, sputtering "Xa foto gulo tege!" as he cameoed with two hands. These are words I knew. 'To cut the penis skin!'

I was hoping to be able to say that it has at least been a quite week, with this circumcision ceremony happening, and since all of the boys between the ages of 5 and 12 in my compound have spent it sitting together in a dark room on the other side of the village, and those between 3 and 5 years old have spent it in a dark room in my compound.

But it hasn't even been quiet. Many of the boys getting circumcised are from extended family in Kedougou City, and they came out with their mothers, who inevitably brought younger siblings in tow. So the chaos of my compound has remained undiminished.

Comic relief has presented itself when the little boys venture out of their dark room into the compound to do the things they normally do. These activities include rolling a cylindrical object of some kind around with a stick, or generally messing around.

Technically they are not supposed to do this during the week long ‘shunning’ period, but since they are the little kids, they are not kept under such tight watch as the older ones, who have imams around at all times.
None of it is very hard-ass though. The older boys eat very well during this time, and at night they do fantastic chants as they circle around a big fire.

Traditional huh!?

Poor Goats

I, obviously don't care when the young kids wander out, and the mothers present generally turn a blind eye. But the kids themselves are a bit paranoid.

Boubacar (the hilarious chubby boy pictured in a recent post) snuck out a few times. On one such occasion he wandered all the way across the compound to mess with a goat that has been tied up and will be slaughtered on Sunday when the first week of ceremonies/shunning is over. 

Just then a 20-something Imam in training named Ibrahima Jaoura came swaggering into the compound.

"Boubacar!" we shouted! "Jaoura naala!" Literally Jaoura comes!

Jaoura

Boubacar turned around and a look of fright and surprise swept across his pudgy little face. Without hesitating he went to beeline for the building he was supposed to be in. The other little boys around quickly tottered inside as Jaoura, smug as always, walked his arm-swinging walk towards the talibé dormitory where he sleeps. But Boubacar was out of luck, for the most he could do in his present state was waddle stiff legged across the compound as everybody, even Jaoura, laughed at him. But he was immune to our amusement and pressed on with a look of gritty determination. Jaoura went into his hut, retrieved whatever he came for, shouted an empty, half chuckled threat at the fleeing delinquent, and left again by the time Boubacar finally reached the sanctuary of his mom's house.

Minutes later I saw him pop his head out and scan the compound, a look of sheer fright on his face. ...

Aah! But I keep getting sidetracked!

Anyway, as I am listening to the podcast, enjoying some coconut water and my thoughts, I notice a very unpleasant noise, something between a loud moan and a stifled cry of pain ripping through the compound. At first I assume that it is an agitated ruminant of some time.

This might sound like a surprising supposition to one who has not been around domesticated ungulates in Senegal, but believe you me, these animals brazenly express themselves with bold, horrible noises, for no obvious reason, mimicking what it would probably sound like to die a painful, egregious death.

But the moans did not cease. After a minute or so I decided it could not be any animal other than the human kind, and went to investigate.

Whenever I step into the midday sun in Senegal without sunglasses my pale complexion obliges me obliged to frown to some degree, as I must squint my pale eyes. But my frown quickly changed from one of necessity to one of displeasure as I realized the source of the irksome groans.

A boy was laying on the sandy ground in the middle of the compound and I saw that he was bleeding out of both a cut on his nose and the nose itself, and that he had a bloody lip. Somebody had clocked this kid good. The wounds were full of sand, and a small stream of blood continued to trickle out of the cut on his nose.

I recognized this boy as Lamine, a Talibé from eastern Kedougou. I had taken a liking to Lamine in recent days. He had actually gone through a couple years of French schooling before becoming a Koranic student, and was eager to try to use the little French he still remembered, and he wanted to learn more. I was happy to help him with this, and we had chatted on a few recent evenings.

Lamine lay limply on the ground and continued his deep, distressing groans. Nobody seemed to take much notice, and as usual, they seemed more interested in my presence than the fact that a friend of theirs was clearly suffering.

Much like the last time I confronted an unpleasant injury, I rose wordlessly and went back to my hut. The usual chaos of the compound continued unabated. I fetched a bucket with some water in it, a scrubby thing, the tube of antibiotic cream, and my shades.

Still, the moans of pain went on, with a slow, eerie rhythm.

I pulled Lamine up so he was in a kind of crouch, and, holding his neck with my left hand, propped his head on my knee. Then, with the same heedless confidence with which I dressed up the boy with the infected wounds I set about cleaning up Lamine’s face. There was dirt, sand, and blood all over the side of his head, in his eyes and ears.

A group of boys watched as I worked, and as I tried to gently tend to the wounds on Lamine’s nose I began to feel very angry.

I held my tongue for a moment, then found myself speaking with a scarcely controlled anger towards the boys who watched with complacency.

(My phrases were probably much more broken than this rendering:)

“What are you doing there!?” Pause. “Who did this?” Breath. “Your friend is on the ground, and you leave him there like this!?” Incredulous wave of the arm. “You need to help him! IF YOUR FRIEND IS ON THE GROUND, YOU HELP HIM!! IF YOUR FRIEND IS ON THE GROUND, YOU HELP!!”

At this point I realized three things.

1)    I was yelling.

2)    This was the first time I had ever expressed true anger in Jaxanké, and that I was capable of doing so.

3)    That my grip on the back of Lamine’s neck had tightened unconsciously and when I released the skin was pale from the compression.

Remaining as cool as possible I finished the job to the best of my ability and helped him over to a ledge in the shade where he could sit. At this point one of my overtaxed host moms brought him some more water.

I dumped out the water I’d been using and went back into my hut to wash my hands.

What had I just done?

Was it my place to discipline these kids like that?

I hadn’t pressed the kids on who specifically did the punching.

I may have grown up in the suburbs—where kids don’t really fight because the managerial state is fully established with ‘conflict managers,’ passive aggressive school psychologists, and drugs like Ritalin— but I know that kids fight, and kids around here have reason enough to be pissed off every now and then.

Reacting against the act of violence in itself would be useless.

But the fact that nobody did anything about it, and that Lamine’s friends did not even try to assuage him, this struck me as wrong.

But what do I know? I understand about half of what goes on around here—on a good day—and I have only known these people for about 2 months.

Maybe Lamine is known to over react. It did not seem like this to me, but again, I know little. 

Maybe he really deserved it. Maybe he had overwhelmed any sympathies.

I don’t know.

One thing is for sure though. Heat seems to beget hot headedness. It is still technically the cool season but is already hitting the low 90s during the day, and it will only get hotter until the first rains finally come, sometime around early June.

What shall the heat bring?

---

^[1] You may be thinking 'Hey well there is a column for 'part time worker,' in the census tab, and we have statistical devices to work out such irregularities.' I realize this is probably true in some kind of way. I also have the ability to factor this in to my analysis. But it is very hot here, and I am writing a polemic.

[2] I would like to take this opportunity to emphasis to the reader that there is no connection between the Talibé school system, and the Afghani/Pakistani political movement known as ‘The Taliban’. It is merely the same Arabic word; student of the Koran.