This turned out to be really long, sorry if it’s boring. I have some time on my hands. Anyway, here’s an example of how slowly things work here:
I haven’t really been homesick yet, but when I first got to site one of the first things I really wanted to do was get a P.O. box. I was really eager to get an address, I guess because it’s a link to home that I really wanted. I got to site on a weekend, so the first Monday I was here my supervisor told me to come to his office in the late afternoon and then we’d go to the post office. The first week or so my family didn’t think I was capable or going anywhere by myself, and I always had to have somebody accompany me. That probably wouldn’t have bothered me if the girl who was always sent to go with, named Hawa, me didn’t annoy the crap out of me. She has no malicious intentions, but she’s the kind of person who always has to have her mouth going. That’s one of my pet peeves anyway, but it was even more annoying because half of what came out of her mouth was an imitation of me. She mocked me constantly. I still don’t understand much, but those first few days all I said was “mi famaani,” which means, “I don’t understand.” Whenever we’d go somewhere together she’d just keep repeating “mi famaani, mi famaaaaaani” in the universal nasal tone that I’m finding out people all over world use when they’re mocking another person. I bet even the African tribes that uses clicks instead of words manage to make a more nasal sounding click when they’re imitating a fellow clicker. Anyway.
Another thing I dislike: close physical proximity to other humans who I don’t know very well. I guess you could say I have a big space bubble. In my opinion, unless you’re a cute boy, a family member or a close friend, there’s no need to get too close to me. There’s especially no need to hold my hand. The Senegalese feel differently. I don’t know if there’s one word I could use to describe Senegalese culture, but if I had to pick one it would be “contradictory.” They haven’t struck me as being particularly sensitive, yet it’s totally fine to hold each other’s hands. Men hold other men’s hands, women hold other women’s hands…holding hands is totally normal. I don’t know when I took my first steps as a baby, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been capable of walking on my own for at least 20 years now. Needless to say, holding hands isn’t my thing, especially when I’m holding hands with somebody who’s constantly mocking me.
Eventually the glorious moment came when I was going to the post office to get an address so my mom and family and friends could send me cards and care packages. Hawa’s mocking and handholding didn’t even bother me too much. We met up with my supervisor and we went to the post office, only to have the guy at the post office say I needed a copy of my i.d. card, and I’d have to come back tomorrow with it. I thought to myself, “OK. That’s reasonable. Where’s the nearest Kinko’s? Even in Africa they should be open this time of day. Oh right, I’m in Africa. I could literally walk to the edge of the Sahara Desert in a few hours. I bet I’m pretty freaking far from the closest Kinko’s. Is there even a photocopy machine in my town? Why would somebody in my town even need a photocopy of something? I’ve never even seen anybody, apart from my supervisor, read anything. So why would they need to copy anything?” Then I realized my supervisor was telling Hawa to take me to some guy’s house to get a photocopy of my i.d. I was excited and surprised at the prospect of getting a photocopy right then and there.
My supervisor left, and Hawa took my hand and started leading me all over the place trying to find Amadou, the guy who could photocopy my i.d. We never found him. Hawa’s handholding got annoying again. I tried to find ways to use my hands so I wouldn’t have to hold her hand. That backfired, however, because another thing the Senegalese like to do is to state what you’re currently doing. I pulled my hand away so I could get my water bottle out and have my hands occupied. I took a sip. Hawa says to me “a yarat?” which means, “you are drinking?” I’m thinking to myself, “no you weird hand holder, I’m putting water in my mouth and swallowing, but I’m not drinking,” but in response I said, “eey, mi yarat” (yes, I am drinking). Well apparently that’s exactly what Hawa needed to add to her repertoire, because all the way home Hawa threw “eeeeh mi yarat” into the mix of “mi famaani’s” when she mimicked me. I took a mental note to keep to smiles and nods around Hawa.
The next morning I went to my supervisor’s office and told him we never got the photocopy. He didn’t seem upset or surprised about it, and we set off to see the elusive Amadou who I thought was an integral part in my quest to get a permanent address in Senegal. Amadou turned out to be a dude with a scanner and a printer/copier, and a dude lacking the ability to recognize a printer’s need for new ink. My supervisor and I sat around for probably 20-30 minutes watching Amadou play with the computer and printer. The first couple of times he tried copying my i.d nothing really turned out, but I hadn’t been paying too much attention cuz I was looking at one of his family photo albums (a past time that seems pretty common here). Then he scanned my i.d. and tried to print it in color. The color showed up, but not the black and grays. Amadou looked pretty stumped, but I have to give him credit for not giving up. He tried at least one more time before admitting that he couldn’t do it. “You just need new ink, buddy.” Too bad I have no idea how to say that in Pulaar.
We left Amadou’s and it was about 11:30. People eat lunch here around 2. My supervisor suggested I spend the day and eat lunch at/around his office. Ok, sure, why not. Sitting at Amadou’s was pretty exhausting, we wouldn’t want to go to another place to try to get a photocopy of my i.d. right away. I wasn’t anxious to get letters from home to make me feel a little more connected, a little less like I was the only normal person on this side of the Atlantic. No biggie, I can wait. The east coast hasn’t even really woken up yet, anyway.
My supervisor eats lunch with a family who lives right next to his office, and that’s where he left me until lunch. I was totally fine with that, there were some cute kids I got to play with. Lunch finally happened around 2. We finished eating and the men went to pray. I figured when they were done praying we’d go get the stupid photocopy. Nope. My supervisor comes back and says that we should rest. He goes into the TV room that has two beds, lays down and was snoring in under 3 minutes. No joke. I figured, “when in Rome….” So I laid down on the other bed and tried to ignore the snores. About an hour later the mom of the household came in and turned the TV on. She sifted through a pile of DVD’s, and decided on some awful Kung Fu movie that was dubbed in French. It was awful, but it was so awful it was funny. Some other people came in to watch it, and their reactions to the movie were more entertaining than the movie itself. The movie was one bad fight scene after another. Every scene was painfully fake, but everybody else winced at every punch, gave a sympathetic “ooooo” with every kick or a shocked “eeeee” with every explosion. The best was when the father figure in the movie got his hand cut off and everybody clutched their own hand, even though the actor’s nub was the exact same length as arm that still had a hand. I think everybody else was convinced it was real.
The movie ended happily, and my supervisor disappeared for a little while. I was pleasantly surprised when he came back with a photocopy of my i.d.! I was really excited to go back to the post office and get my address, but when we got there they guy gave us some b.s. about not having the proper forms. I had to come back again the next day. As we left I told my supervisor I didn’t understand what was going on, and he replied “c’est comme ca.” “It’s like that.” I walked back home muttering “it’s like that” to myself. I felt like a pouting 3 year old-I just wanted a letter from my mommy! Is that so much to ask?!
The guy at the post office had told me to come back the next day around 4 or 5. I waited around all day, and when the late afternoon rolled around I wasn’t even excited about going to the post office. I was over it. I kinda figured it wouldn’t happen for another couple of days. When I got to the post office the guy started talking about not having forms or something again. I just let him talk while I stared at the scraggly mustache he was trying to grow. The wannabe mustache didn’t even look like it needed shaving-the hairs were too few and far between. I was sure I could fix it up with a pair of tweezers. I decided that’s what his upper lip needed-a good pluck. Don’t bother with shaving cream. They probably don’t even have that here. I dragged myself out my thoughts about a makeover for the post office guy, and realized that he was telling me I could still have letters sent to me without the paper work. I almost didn’t believe him. I asked him what my address was and he was and he said “B.P. 2, my town, Senegal.” I was sure I hadn’t gotten that right. He repeated it again. “B.P. 2, my town, Senegal.” One word kept going through my head, “seriously?? SERIOUSLY!? Seriously. Ser-I-ous-ly? I went through all kinds of mocking and handholding, Amadou’s ink-less printer, snores, a ridiculously bad kung fu movie, and even more waiting…..for B.P. TWO!!! There’s only one address I can think of that would be easier than that: B.P. 1. Seriously? B.P. 2? That’s it??” The words of my supervisor came back to me, “C’est comme ca.” I guess it is. I was grateful to have an address.
And I’m even more grateful to have gotten letters from friends and family! It makes me really really happy, and I appreciate it! Keep them coming! I hope everybody has a wonderful Christmas and fun New Year celebrations!!
I haven’t really been homesick yet, but when I first got to site one of the first things I really wanted to do was get a P.O. box. I was really eager to get an address, I guess because it’s a link to home that I really wanted. I got to site on a weekend, so the first Monday I was here my supervisor told me to come to his office in the late afternoon and then we’d go to the post office. The first week or so my family didn’t think I was capable or going anywhere by myself, and I always had to have somebody accompany me. That probably wouldn’t have bothered me if the girl who was always sent to go with, named Hawa, me didn’t annoy the crap out of me. She has no malicious intentions, but she’s the kind of person who always has to have her mouth going. That’s one of my pet peeves anyway, but it was even more annoying because half of what came out of her mouth was an imitation of me. She mocked me constantly. I still don’t understand much, but those first few days all I said was “mi famaani,” which means, “I don’t understand.” Whenever we’d go somewhere together she’d just keep repeating “mi famaani, mi famaaaaaani” in the universal nasal tone that I’m finding out people all over world use when they’re mocking another person. I bet even the African tribes that uses clicks instead of words manage to make a more nasal sounding click when they’re imitating a fellow clicker. Anyway.
Another thing I dislike: close physical proximity to other humans who I don’t know very well. I guess you could say I have a big space bubble. In my opinion, unless you’re a cute boy, a family member or a close friend, there’s no need to get too close to me. There’s especially no need to hold my hand. The Senegalese feel differently. I don’t know if there’s one word I could use to describe Senegalese culture, but if I had to pick one it would be “contradictory.” They haven’t struck me as being particularly sensitive, yet it’s totally fine to hold each other’s hands. Men hold other men’s hands, women hold other women’s hands…holding hands is totally normal. I don’t know when I took my first steps as a baby, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been capable of walking on my own for at least 20 years now. Needless to say, holding hands isn’t my thing, especially when I’m holding hands with somebody who’s constantly mocking me.
Eventually the glorious moment came when I was going to the post office to get an address so my mom and family and friends could send me cards and care packages. Hawa’s mocking and handholding didn’t even bother me too much. We met up with my supervisor and we went to the post office, only to have the guy at the post office say I needed a copy of my i.d. card, and I’d have to come back tomorrow with it. I thought to myself, “OK. That’s reasonable. Where’s the nearest Kinko’s? Even in Africa they should be open this time of day. Oh right, I’m in Africa. I could literally walk to the edge of the Sahara Desert in a few hours. I bet I’m pretty freaking far from the closest Kinko’s. Is there even a photocopy machine in my town? Why would somebody in my town even need a photocopy of something? I’ve never even seen anybody, apart from my supervisor, read anything. So why would they need to copy anything?” Then I realized my supervisor was telling Hawa to take me to some guy’s house to get a photocopy of my i.d. I was excited and surprised at the prospect of getting a photocopy right then and there.
My supervisor left, and Hawa took my hand and started leading me all over the place trying to find Amadou, the guy who could photocopy my i.d. We never found him. Hawa’s handholding got annoying again. I tried to find ways to use my hands so I wouldn’t have to hold her hand. That backfired, however, because another thing the Senegalese like to do is to state what you’re currently doing. I pulled my hand away so I could get my water bottle out and have my hands occupied. I took a sip. Hawa says to me “a yarat?” which means, “you are drinking?” I’m thinking to myself, “no you weird hand holder, I’m putting water in my mouth and swallowing, but I’m not drinking,” but in response I said, “eey, mi yarat” (yes, I am drinking). Well apparently that’s exactly what Hawa needed to add to her repertoire, because all the way home Hawa threw “eeeeh mi yarat” into the mix of “mi famaani’s” when she mimicked me. I took a mental note to keep to smiles and nods around Hawa.
The next morning I went to my supervisor’s office and told him we never got the photocopy. He didn’t seem upset or surprised about it, and we set off to see the elusive Amadou who I thought was an integral part in my quest to get a permanent address in Senegal. Amadou turned out to be a dude with a scanner and a printer/copier, and a dude lacking the ability to recognize a printer’s need for new ink. My supervisor and I sat around for probably 20-30 minutes watching Amadou play with the computer and printer. The first couple of times he tried copying my i.d nothing really turned out, but I hadn’t been paying too much attention cuz I was looking at one of his family photo albums (a past time that seems pretty common here). Then he scanned my i.d. and tried to print it in color. The color showed up, but not the black and grays. Amadou looked pretty stumped, but I have to give him credit for not giving up. He tried at least one more time before admitting that he couldn’t do it. “You just need new ink, buddy.” Too bad I have no idea how to say that in Pulaar.
We left Amadou’s and it was about 11:30. People eat lunch here around 2. My supervisor suggested I spend the day and eat lunch at/around his office. Ok, sure, why not. Sitting at Amadou’s was pretty exhausting, we wouldn’t want to go to another place to try to get a photocopy of my i.d. right away. I wasn’t anxious to get letters from home to make me feel a little more connected, a little less like I was the only normal person on this side of the Atlantic. No biggie, I can wait. The east coast hasn’t even really woken up yet, anyway.
My supervisor eats lunch with a family who lives right next to his office, and that’s where he left me until lunch. I was totally fine with that, there were some cute kids I got to play with. Lunch finally happened around 2. We finished eating and the men went to pray. I figured when they were done praying we’d go get the stupid photocopy. Nope. My supervisor comes back and says that we should rest. He goes into the TV room that has two beds, lays down and was snoring in under 3 minutes. No joke. I figured, “when in Rome….” So I laid down on the other bed and tried to ignore the snores. About an hour later the mom of the household came in and turned the TV on. She sifted through a pile of DVD’s, and decided on some awful Kung Fu movie that was dubbed in French. It was awful, but it was so awful it was funny. Some other people came in to watch it, and their reactions to the movie were more entertaining than the movie itself. The movie was one bad fight scene after another. Every scene was painfully fake, but everybody else winced at every punch, gave a sympathetic “ooooo” with every kick or a shocked “eeeee” with every explosion. The best was when the father figure in the movie got his hand cut off and everybody clutched their own hand, even though the actor’s nub was the exact same length as arm that still had a hand. I think everybody else was convinced it was real.
The movie ended happily, and my supervisor disappeared for a little while. I was pleasantly surprised when he came back with a photocopy of my i.d.! I was really excited to go back to the post office and get my address, but when we got there they guy gave us some b.s. about not having the proper forms. I had to come back again the next day. As we left I told my supervisor I didn’t understand what was going on, and he replied “c’est comme ca.” “It’s like that.” I walked back home muttering “it’s like that” to myself. I felt like a pouting 3 year old-I just wanted a letter from my mommy! Is that so much to ask?!
The guy at the post office had told me to come back the next day around 4 or 5. I waited around all day, and when the late afternoon rolled around I wasn’t even excited about going to the post office. I was over it. I kinda figured it wouldn’t happen for another couple of days. When I got to the post office the guy started talking about not having forms or something again. I just let him talk while I stared at the scraggly mustache he was trying to grow. The wannabe mustache didn’t even look like it needed shaving-the hairs were too few and far between. I was sure I could fix it up with a pair of tweezers. I decided that’s what his upper lip needed-a good pluck. Don’t bother with shaving cream. They probably don’t even have that here. I dragged myself out my thoughts about a makeover for the post office guy, and realized that he was telling me I could still have letters sent to me without the paper work. I almost didn’t believe him. I asked him what my address was and he was and he said “B.P. 2, my town, Senegal.” I was sure I hadn’t gotten that right. He repeated it again. “B.P. 2, my town, Senegal.” One word kept going through my head, “seriously?? SERIOUSLY!? Seriously. Ser-I-ous-ly? I went through all kinds of mocking and handholding, Amadou’s ink-less printer, snores, a ridiculously bad kung fu movie, and even more waiting…..for B.P. TWO!!! There’s only one address I can think of that would be easier than that: B.P. 1. Seriously? B.P. 2? That’s it??” The words of my supervisor came back to me, “C’est comme ca.” I guess it is. I was grateful to have an address.
And I’m even more grateful to have gotten letters from friends and family! It makes me really really happy, and I appreciate it! Keep them coming! I hope everybody has a wonderful Christmas and fun New Year celebrations!!
Labels: C'est Comme Ca
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