A Change

During my time in Senegal I kept a journal, sometimes faithfully, sometimes less so. This entry is dated simply "late June". I wrote this about 3 or 4 days after moving to the village of Bafata.
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We (the Casamance 6 - me, Ken, Rich, Chuck, Mar, April) left Thies at 6 am one morning for the Casamance, Bob C. driving. Rick T. was going to drive, but he tried to drive us to Jack's party the night before and it became clear that he didn't know up from down in a clutch! So we had him replaced. No offense, Rick, but you can't drive. Arrived in Ziguinchor to find nothing much happening, so Ken & I took off for Cap Skirring and a damn good time, if you forgot the sand fleas (30 on the right hand alone - ouch!) and the crab attacks! We slept out on the beach. It was cool and clear and quite comfy. I didn't particularly mind the sand, either. We ate at the Le Paillote hotel - 1700 CFA menu (whew!) every night (except the first, when knowing no better, we ate at this nasty spot in the town which wanted a buck each (250CFA) for serving us 1 chopped tomato each. HAH! Upon our return, we found that M. Kamara, the Inspecteur Regionale, refused to introduce us to the Governor in any form except that of a complete group. Rich and Chuck having already shot off for Kolda, this was at present impossible. Gov. not so important anyway!

So, then went off to Sedhiou, the Dept. capital to see M. Denis Badji, our Chef d'Equipe, with Ken and his multitude of baggage. Denis was willing to take Ken out to his village, which was nearby, but he was short on time and asked me if I couldn't get Kamara to take me to Bafata, since it is a long way from Sedhiou.

I took a pirogue across the Casamance River to Yatacounda and from there a Car Rapide whisked me off to Zig, where Kamara spent 4 days telling me he couldn't find a car and hinting that it was Peace Corp's responsibility to get me out there. Bullshit! So Andree took me out, and here I am. In Bafata. Normally, the volunteer is supposed to hang out for a couple of months and learn the language, get the lay of the land, but under the influence of influence, c'est a dire que the villageois wanted to waste no time, we have already held 3 town meetings and I've made a pilot trip to the Chef de CER in Diatacounda. BANANAS. There's the key word. They want bananas. But let's take this more or less chronologically, eh wot?

I got here the day before yesterday with Andree. Naturally, the Wolof soldiers in the nearly military camp felt obligated (from nothing else to do, I reckon) to stop us and search everything. We were very nice, and after that hassle, we continued on. I got the school teacher to help in translating since very few people speak French here, and we continued on to where i stayed during the live-in, at the first elder's place. My baggage was unloaded, Andree left, and there I was, alone in a small African village which was destined to be my home for the next 2 years. Hmmm. Food for thought, that. That's longer than I've stayed still for some time now. The next day, being yesterday, I toured the banana field with the chief's son and some others to look at it and get an idea of its size. Next, Th - no wait, first we had - no, no, no , we saw the field the FIRST day. That's it! The first day, then yesterday at 8 am we had the first riotous meeting to decide when to start work. We decided to see the Chef de CER first (thinking then that it was the Chef d'Arrondissment, but it turns out to have been the Chef de CER). Yesterday afternoon, we decided on 120 persons to do the brush clearing work, whenever it would start. This morning, me and this guy (I call him mentally "noloti, which is Peul for "how much" since I can't remember his real name, although it sounds something like that) went riding off - they loaned me a bike - to Diatacounda to see the Chef de CER. He was a young Wolof idiot who had just gotten up when we got there and appeared at the door in his shorts. Every other word was "Vous avez compris?" as if he doubted that either of us could really understand the profundities that were issuing forth from his mouth. Well, we did and what it came to was this: We had to put in a request to the Agent des Eaux et Forets, who would subsequently come out to look at the area and give his approval (we hoped). This we did, and we were on our way. That's the end of today's business, except for a brief report to the town council under the mangoes, recapitulating what transpired. I seem to have slept for the rest of the day, having been exhausted from the bike ride of 18 kms plus side trips to surrounding villages - visiting noloti's friends.

This place is beautiful. It's rained a few times already, and everything is very green. There is an abundance of trees, plants, and general vegetation, not to mention insects, lizards and animals. I have a feeling of unreality about being here. Listen, here I am living in a round hut with a pointed roof made of millet stalks. From every corner and at any time (from about 5 am on) I hear women pounding millet in wooden bowls. Half naked women and totally nude kids are everywhere speaking an incomprehensible gibberish - which soon enuf I will be speaking also - and laughing and pointing at the Tubob. Some younger children bolt in fright at the sight of a white man (Hmmmmm - I'll sue!) The wasps, one of which is examining me now, make ours look like a piper cub next to a B-52. There are only 300 people in this village, about 1/2 Balant, 1/2 Mandeng. I'm living on the Balant side of town. Bafata is also divided into 3 parts, with 2 Balant chiefs and 1 Mandeng. The Mandeng are Muslims; the Balant "Catholic or Pagan" by their own admission.

It's going to rain ce soir. What if I have to shit? I'm going to march out en brosse in a Casamance downpour. I'm going to be flattened by the rains, deafened by the thunder and burnt to a crispy critter by the lighting? Probably. Speaking of thunder ... the breeze is, however, nice, and in spite of all the attendant misery, I think I'll like the rain, having grown up with a little of it.