Senegal

by Leslie Haberl

One AM. It’s dark, and humid. There are people all over the place, some of them may be picking my pockets. My thoughts are racing: “I’m in Africa, I can’t believe I’m really in Africa.”

Fortunately Magueye, the director of the volunteer program, meets me at the gates as promised. I don’t really know what he looks like, other than a side-profile from a small photo on his website, but I have to trust that this is him.
I’m in Senegal. Volunteering, technically. But I take so much more from this experience than I give.

The hostel where I stay for the first few days is what I would consider a transitional phase. The shower is cold, and I sleep under a mosquito net – things which quickly become part of everyday life – but I also get certain luxuries like toilet paper and a ceiling fan.

During orientation week in Dakar, I learn some key things. In Senegal, there are only three ‘hours’ in a day: morning, afternoon, and evening. Plans happen when they happen, or if they don’t, they’ll happen the next day, or the one after that. Schedules are merely guidelines. Nothing has a fixed price; you have to learn to bargain (or, in my case, just get your friends who are better at it to bargain for you).

Driving is madness. Drivers seem to go by an unwritten rule that if you think you can fit your car into a space – say, between two buses on a two-lane road – you go for it! But it’s exciting, and I soon learn not to fear for my life in every taxi, despite the cracked windshields and the fact that I have to hold my door closed on the highway.

Mechanical breakdowns are common. I learn this as we stop in village after village on the way home from an excursion, trying to fix a scooter which is leaking gas. Eventually we flag down a car and stick the bike in the back. We take the scenic route home to avoid police on the main roads – I decide it’s better not to ask. I learn from Magueye after our fourth attempt at getting the bike fixed that “Il n’y a pas de problèmes, il y a que des solutions.” This rings true to me, and it’s a mantra that I now use quite frequently.

Polygamy is an interesting topic which I encounter head-on more than once (not in the sense of being proposed to, although that did happen once or twice). The first time is when Magueye’s wife (one of two, I learn), Ndèye Khadi, comes to me crying, saying that she thinks her husband has been visiting his other wife. She is devastated at the fact that he married this woman in the first place, and that he has, for the moment, chosen to be with her. Frankly, I don’t blame her. They have a three year old son who gets to listen to them fight about it every night. Magueye explains his reasoning to me later. Polygamy eliminates cheating (although apparently not the emotions typically associated with it…). He’s not in love with this other woman, who used to be the family maid, and who lives a few houses away; it’s purely a lust-based deal.

Later on, I have a discussion about multiple wives with some teachers. Their arguments are similar to Magueye’s. A man is always ‘looking on,’ so it reduces problems if he takes on another wife. I ask what happens once he has four wives (the Qur’an’s maximum allowance) and is still looking on? He gets rid of one and takes on another! I think they are only half joking. I ask if it’s fair then for a woman to acquire four husbands? They think for a minute, and say no, because that would involve too many paternity problems. And STDs. Somehow, their arguments don’t hold up in my mind. But these guys are my friends, and this is a light-hearted conversation; I feel I’m in no position to condemn the practice with my limited knowledge of it

My experience in Africa is embodied in the village though. This is where I spend almost the entirety of my trip, living with a huge host family who make me feel guilty because they treat me so well.

In the village my awareness of being ‘different’ floats in and out. I don’t see myself often, as mirrors are scarce. I only see the local people, so I sometimes forget how much I stand out in comparison. But then kids will run up to me in the street, wanting to shake my hand or asking for money, and I’ll remember that I’m a foreigner, and that I’m not home. Perception is interesting that way.

What I do become conscious of is my gender. I’ve never thought of myself as a feminist before. I’ve never even thought of myself as female before, in the sense of it being a large component of my identity. Then again, I’ve never been so aware of “female” as a role. In my life, I’ve never had so many connotations (both positive and negative) attached to the idea of being a girl. Placed in a context where it becomes relevant, I realize that being female and having a point of view automatically makes me a feminist.

I begin to feel that if I don’t take on the role of ‘girl’ here, I will have somehow failed as a woman. How is it possible not to take on this role? Although, foreigners seem to be given the royal treatment, so I am placed above the societal constraints of other women – I can immerse myself in the lifestyle of a Senegalese woman if I choose to, but if I’m tired of all the responsibility, I can take on a man’s role and hang back.

The women seem to do everything here. My host mother, sisters, and friends spend all morning sweeping the sand from the floors of their houses, even though they know that minutes later, people will once again traipse through with their dirty feet. They spend hours and hours cleaning, and have an entire day devoted to laundry (aside from the other garments they occasionally wash during the week), which they scrub in buckets out in the hot sun. To be clear, the women I’m referring to aren’t all adults, or even close. On my first day here, I find three young girls, all of whom must be under the age of 10, plucking and cutting up a freshly-slaughtered chicken, prepping it for dinner. Even little two year old Binetou is encouraged to help out where she can.

Here, there are few choices for the girls. They are encouraged to go to school, but chances are that soon after they graduate high school, or middle school, or even before that, they’ll be married off and continue the cycle of cooking/cleaning/producing babies. In my host family, I am closest to Adama. She’s the oldest girl; at 16 she’s much younger than me and has many more responsibilities than I have ever had. She is fun, and smart, and dedicated to her school work, but no matter how enthusiastic she is about school, she’ll likely be married before she even gets to think about what she wants to do with her life.

My host dad, who also happens to be the accountant at the NGO I volunteer with, tells me that they tried to implement a microfinance program for men once, but it fell through. He continues on to say that men are irresponsible with their money, and that these programs only work with women. Sure enough, I wake up from a nap one day to find a women’s group meeting taking place in my family’s living room. About thirty women assemble every three months to contribute some money to a resource pool which will assure the continuity of their businesses.

Education is encouraged. Women’s businesses are thriving. Women even have important roles in politics. Senegal certainly seems to be heading in the direction of progress. But there are so many obstacles preventing this from happening. Attitudes in the cities are becoming more modern, while women in the villages are left behind. Tradition is important, but restrictive. Change, of course, would be wonderful. However, in a purely observational and non-pessimistic way, I am not sure if it is entirely possible.

I feel like I’ve seen more and know less now. I don’t know where I can help, or if I even should. I’ve become more aware of my helplessness than my ability to contribute.

In Senegal, people really enjoy life. The women, men and children are constantly celebrating – every event, be it a baptism or a political rally, involves music and dancing.