In Which I Describe My Service Learning Project

When we were brainstorming in Dakar before traveling to Guede, I was painfully aware of my own limitations as far as the service learning project was concerned. We were supposed to mobilize our own funds, and as a student, my financial resources are limited. I thought about a lot of different options, but the idea of working to improve the library tempted me the most. Libraries were what Andrew Carnegie built to ease his conscience of his ill-gotten gains. I love reading and I come from a family that loves reading. I truly believe in the power of books to take you beyond your own time and place-- and in doing so, expand the power of your spirit, the range of your imagination. Books are what can make you realize that the world is bigger than your own little village.

Also, unlike other projects, "improving the library" was flexible in size. If I could raise funds for bookshelves full of volumes, that would be wonderful. But if I could only manage to contribute a few shelves, that would be okay too. I wanted a flexible commitment so I wouldn't be put in the position of promising something I couldn't deliver.

I was astonished and a little alarmed by how unrealistic my classmates were during the brainstorming session. They were saying things like, "build a new school building. build an addition onto the hospital." Rather than thinking of their own abilities, they were thinking of the village's needs. Which is admirable and everything, but you need to be aware of what you can and cannot do. I can't blame my classmates for it, because the U.N. does exactly the same thing on a grander scale. It must be a flaw built into human brains.

After my Senegalese friend Emmanuel saw the ramshackle classroom building in Guede, he wanted to "build a new school building." Our teachers told him very gently and tactfully that he needed to be more realistic. I was less tactful. I rolled my eyes and said, "Where are you going to get the lumber for it, pull it out of your pocket?" I don't know why I'm so impatient with people who think all you need is good intentions.

Eventually, Emmanuel decided to join my library project, because even if it wasn't as grandiose as building a new school, it was still in the field of education. And I have to admit it is a relief to have a Senegalese person on the team, to help with languages, navigating the city, etc. Although I worry that I must be a very irritating teammate for Emmanuel because I'm so full of my own plans and ideas. I don't want to steamroller over him in my excess of enthusiasm.

Well, I was prepared to find all sorts of problems in the Guede library. I know that sometimes library projects in Africa fail because people don't bring back books. They told me they would find me a "village mentor" for me, and I could begin by interviewing him. So I prepared a list of questions to tactfully interrogate him on the library's functioning.

My mentor was quite simply the school official who held the keys to the library and worked in the office next door to it; his name was Monsieur Saal. We cordially shook hands as I swallowed down my nervousness. How often do students used the library? I asked. Monsieur Saal appeared embarassed. He hedged and hedged. Finally, he was forced to admit that not a single student had yet borrowed a book. In fact, only six students even possessed library cards.

I swallowed and took a moment to assimilate that. This was a little more than I was bargaining for. Gradually, I grew to understand the nature of the problem. The library had been created by the students who had visited Guede-Chantier last semester. Someone's church had made quite a substantial donation towards the project. They had painted and renovated the room and filled it with books and shelves. The library had officially existed for two months, and it was quite a pleasant little room. "Bienvenue," (Welcome) was written on the chalkboard in all different colors of chalk. One wall was decorated with a mural of handprints in rainbow colors of paint. Above the mural it said, "Mains du Monde," (Hands of the World.)

But everything was covered with a thick layer of dust. I sneezed as I walked through the room. Then Monsieur Saal said, "Oh dear, the termites have gotten to these books." He flipped through them and I saw that three or four shelves full of books were riddled with holes. The wall behind the bookshelf was streaked with what looked like thick sandy trails, betokening the presence of hungry insects. "The students last semester told us we should buy bug-spray," said Monsieur Saal, "But bugspray, you know, is just so difficult to get....." he clicked his tongue.

"How do the students borrow books?" I asked.

"Oh, all they have to do is knock on my office door and get me to unlock the library for them. But they never knock on my door," said Monsieur Saal, neatly excusing himself from all responsibility.

"Well," I said, as tactfully as possible, "The real problem seems to be there is no librarian." (Remember that this whole conversation is taking place in French, and you will be that much more impressed with me. I am SO glad I studied French hard when I was back at Bard.) "You clearly are already burdened with too many responsibilities. You don't have time to sit there in the library, dusting shelves and lending out books."

"Exactly!" said Monsieur Saal. "I am a very busy man. I have lots of responsibilities at this school."

"Also, I think students might be intimidated to come into your office, and ask you to open the library for them," I said.

"Nonsense! Of course not!"

"If I was a student, I would be afraid of bothering you when you were busy," I said. "Here's an idea; what if we create a team of student volunteers to be librarians? They can take turns lending books and make sure the library isn't neglected. It'll give them a sense of ownership and get them used to being in the building."

Monsieur Saal appeared completely shocked. "Trust.... trust.... students?" he stuttered. "Trust them with the KEY? Trust them with RECORD-KEEPING? That's a ridiculous idea. Students can't handle that kind of responsibility!"

I totally disagreed. I think students are capable of just about anything. But our teachers had told us over and over, before we left to Guede-Chantier, that we must approach our work with a humble attitude. We couldn't just be arrogant Americans, blasting our way into town and assuming we knew everything. "You must work WITH your village partners, trust their judgement, and solicit their opinions," they said. We had two teachers for our service-learning class, one Senegalese man and one American woman, and they both really emphasized this point.

So, remembering what they had told me, I gave Monsieur Saal a dazzlingly bright smile and told him, "This is your village, this is your school. I'm just an outsider. I don't know anything. You'll have to be really kind and tell me what the best way is of doing things."

Monsieur Saal appeared taken aback. "You're not like the students last semester," he told me. "They didn't ask ME what to do. They knew exactly what to do already." He seemed very disconcerted.

Then my teacher (a tall Senegalese man called "As") popped into the room. "Well, how is it going?" he inquired cheerily.

"This young lady is very prepared," Monsieur Saal said. "She had a list of questions written out and everything!" I had the strange impression of being a circus animal who had performed her trick correctly. Blushing in embarassment, I looked at my knees.

Prof As asked a few piercing question and was quickly brought up to date on the state of the library. As soon as he heard no one was using the library, he began to shake his head slowly back and forth. Monsieur Saal now was starting to look REALLY embarassed. "Don't worry about anything," he begin to say, "The library project is going really well, I have everything under control, and even if there's nobody using it now...."

"It's important that people use the library," Prof As told Mr. Saal gently. "It's important."

Mr. Saal's torrent of excuses dried up in the face of this undeniable fact. He rocked slowly back and forth in his chair, biting his lip. The two of them, my teacher and my mentor, begin to talk together. To my relief, I found I could follow their French. Soon it emerged that Prof As was suggesting they create a team of student volunteers to care for the library.

"That's exactly what I suggested!" I cried.

Prof As gave me an approving nod as Mr. Saal renewed his flood of objections. But Prof As cut him short. "I know of a great big library in Dakar," he said, "that runs entirely off of student volunteer labor."

Well, if that was the way they did things in DAKAR, what could Mr. Saal say against it? Dakar was the Big City, and Guede-Chantier was only a little village in the boondocks. "All right, maybe we can organize something like that," he said reluctantly.

"Pick six responsible students, so we can meet with them tommorow," As ordered imperiously.

Impossible. Impossible. Mr. Saal was too busy. We would simply have to wait a few days.

"We're LEAVING in a few days," Prof As pointed out. My gaze ping-ponged from one man to another as they locked their eyes in a staring contest. Mr. Saal was sweating. My face blossomed in a smile as I recognized the dynamic. Prof As. was above Mr. Saal on the dominance hierarchy. He was educated, he came bringing foreigners with him from the Big City. He carried himself with authority and confidence. Also, he was six-and-a-half Mr. Saal caved.

Emmanuel then joined me and we started talking with teachers. I asked them all what books the library needed, and they all said the same thing as Mr. Saal. "We don't have enough copies of each book in the library. There are some books there is only one copy of! We need lots of copies of each book."

I had come to Guede-Chantier anxious to work WITH my villager partners and listen to their suggestions. But this answer was completely ridiculous. They were missing the entire concept of "library." The purpose of a school library is to provide students with a wide variety of fun and enriching books, and teach them to love reading. In a tiny one-room library, you don't want 20 copies of each book. You want as many different books as possible. This is just common sense.

Its understandable to be concerned about textbook shortages, but it was beyond our means to buy a textbook for everyone in the school. The sensible thing to do would be to get a few copies and hold them in the library for reference. In that case, it would be just plain stupid to buy more copies than there were chairs in the library. I hate to say it, but nobody seemed to really be thinking things through. The one sensible suggestion I got was from a geography teacher who wanted an atlas.

Anyway, so this should provide you with plenty of food for thought about Development in third-world countries. The students from last semester did a fantastic job, they really did. Since coming back from Guede-Chantier, I've been in email contact with them. The student who came from the church who made the donation was really upset to hear the library was being neglected. Apparently they set up this huge committee with lots of teachers and officials to make sure the library was well-managed. Everyone acted really enthusiastic and promised to take good care of the library. But then the students go away and everyone forgets about it. And if Emmanuel and I had been interested in something other than books..... say, organic agriculture or food preservation..... what would be happening to the library now? Who would be taking care of it?

But anyway, we had a nice meeting with the student volunteer committtee and started things in motion. Maybe when we make our next visit to Guede-Chantier, we'll see improvements, who knows? I'm actually a little anxious about seeing how things have gone in my absence. Doing things in the real world is hard. Its not as black-and-white as it seems when you read pages full of theory. My first priority is to find fun books. I want to show the kids that reading doesn't have to be a chore, it can be enjoyable. When I think about how much I miss my friends and family and boyfriend, I feel discouraged. But I love kids, and if I can make them excited about something new, I'll consider the project a success.

In Which We Steal Mangos from Mauritania

I think people who come to Senegal as tourists must miss so much. To really understand the country you have to talk to the natives and share people's lives. Living Routes is the only study abroad program in Senegal that puts Senegalese and American students in the same classroom, which I find slightly shocking. Why do people go abroad, if they're just going to recreate the same familiar world around themselves?

Having a native show us around the Guede-Chantier area, really helped us learn the true story of the country. For instance, there was the tomb in the dusty city near the river. An imposing-looking slab of white marble. Ousmane explained that it belonged to a French official who was constantly insulting and degrading the Senegalese people. The mockery came to a peak when he went to a Koranic school, a holy place, and pissed on its floor. This was considered an unbearable insult against the whole community. So Ousmane's grandfather killed the French official to defend the honor of his people. Then the grandfather was brought to a French court of justice and put to death. I hope I got the details of that story right-- its been awhile since I heard it. But it made a huge impression on me. Especially when Ousmane finished telling the story, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "And so, in honor of my grandfather--" and gave the tomb a hearty kick.

It made me realize that colonization is not just the extraction of resources. The French weren't just pillaging the land of its wealth-- they were waging war against the very spirit of the people. Trying to make them ashamed of their most sacred customs and valued institutions. Trying to make them lose belief in themselves. It's a higher level of cruelty altogether-- not a war against bodies, but a war against souls. And in the war against souls, weapons are ideas. Ideas like, "You are barbaric. You are heathen. You are primitive."

I've avoided thinking about racial issues for most of my life, but now I'm butting up right against them. I feel so strange about the way people treat me here. When Cisco (the student coordinator) was giving us our housing assignments in Guede, he said something in Wolof that I didn't understand, and Jess burst out laughing. (Jess has been here a month longer than the rest of us, and she knows more Wolof.) I asked her what was funny and she said, "He says, one 'star' per household. The American students are celebrities here." It gave me an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

A stereotype is like a piece of clothing you can't take off. My skin is bleached white by the snows of my ancestral lands. I can't take off the skin, but as long as I wear it, people will see the skin, instead of seeing me. The other day a random guy said, "Toubab! Nanga def?" (White person! How are you?) I looked at him and said in French, "My name is not toubab." I then added in Wolof, "I am fine," and walked on, while the woman beside him burst out laughing. Apparently she thought it was a good joke on him. He hadn't expected me to understand him.

MY NAME IS NOT TOUBAB!!! MY NAME IS CHARLOTTE!!! What does my skin color say? It says I belong to the vicious, savage race that has ruthlessly exploited and dominated most of the world. The race that offers poison with a smile, as if it were a gift. The race that has filled literature and film with its insidious propaganda, making "light" a synonym for goodness, and "dark" a synonym for evil. The race that runs around the globe, preaching "development" and "modernity," while selling sin and death. At home, my skin color didn't matter. But here, its like the gross symptom of some sort of plague, that marks me as belonging to a race of oppressors. Maybe I'm getting a little melodramatic about this.

Its because there's something deeply wrong here. Beggars will pursue me like they're ANGRY I'm not giving them anything. When I was walking in a town near Guede, this boy, around 12 or 13 years old, pursued me down the street, asking me to buy him a soccer ball. It was the weirdest thing. He kept asking over and over, in different ways. Buy me a soccer ball. Give me money to buy a soccer ball. You're so mean, toubab, why won't you buy me a soccer ball? I'm like, "Kid! You're a total stranger to me! Why are you following me like this?" It was so weird. I was walking next to Ousmane, and when he saw I was starting to get really bothered, he put his arm around my shoulders, frowned menacingly at the kid, and said in French, "She's not a toubab. She's my wife. So scram." The kid looked disappointed and ran away, and I burst out laughing at the success of Ousmane's ruse. It was actually really funny.

One of the villages we visited was the village of Ousmane's 104-year-old grandmother. We went into the cool, shady room of an adobe hut, and sat down on the colorful mats the floor was covered with. On the bed in the corner sat an ancient women with cloudy eyes, her hair covered by a scarf as blue as the sky just before the stars come out. Although we could not understand the Pulaar she spoke, we could understand the liveliness and vivacity that animated her face and the gestures of her hands.

Ousmane crouched beside her, nodding and listening respectfully, and occasionally translating her remarks for us. She told us about the time she defended her flocks from a lion. Ousmane also told us about the time an alligator had tried to swallow one of her baby goats. She was a very strong, muscular young woman, so she simply took ahold of the goat's leg and stood her ground. The crocodile pulled on one end of the goat, and she pulled on the other. In the end, it was the crocodile that gave up on the tug-of-war match. The baby goat was dead, but at least the family got to eat the meat instead of the crocodile.

There was something really touching about watching Ousmane and his grandmother together. Here is this big tall man with his fancy education, wise in the ways of the world, strong and mature. And yet, when he kneels beside his grandmother, its like he's a little boy. Listening in awe to the stories she tells, learning from her the right ways of living in this world. And yet, even as she cares for him, he also cares for her. He is her little grandchild, but he is also the person who has to serve as her legs, her arms, her eyes. And so we have a duality of roles; he is both protector and the protected. Its very sweet, and I wish I had the words to explain it better. The vocabulary to describe this dynamic doesn't really seem to be available to me.

She tells him he has to get in touch with his cousin who has gone to Italy. This cousin has not sent any news in weeks. He is drifting apart from the family. He needs to be reconnected into the web. Ousmane hastily explains what she is saying to him, and then goes back to listening to her. Its the role of the matriarch to make sure the family sticks together, no matter how far apart they are geographically. I've seen my grandmother, my mother, my Aunt Gretchen, doing the same thing. The women who call one another up to share "news," have their own sort of power, more profound and meaningful than that which shapes the destiny of nations.

We then went to visit the village of Ousmane's sister. Ousmane had deliberately not informed his sister he was arriving with a group of fourteen people. As near as I can tell, this was because, if he had given her advance warning, Senegalese etiquette would have compelled her to slaughter a goat and have it ready for us when we arrived. He didn't want his sister to go to a lot of trouble for us. However, the surprise meant she didn't really have anything for us to eat. Ousmane, hoping to distract us from our pangs of hunger, took us on a canoe trip to Mauritania.

The Americans took a great deal of delicious pleasure in being "illegal immigrants." However, the truth is that the Mauritanians and the Senegalese cross the river all the time without much bothering about whose country is whose. Borders are a colonialist invention. Before we went over, Ousmane asked us, "Is there anybody who can't swim?" And two or three people raised their hands. There was an awkward pause and then we shrugged our shoulders and got into the leaky canoe anyway. Oh well..... just let them drown then...... (kidding.)

It was really perfectly safe, but the thrilling thing about it, was that it felt like it wasn't. The leaks were relatively minor, and somebody had plugged them up with old bandanas. But Sydney screamed when she noticed water trickling in through the cloth. Jess said with her usual dollop of gleeful relish, "we're all going to die." I concentrated on not rocking the canoe and sending us all overboard. Neither Sydney's fastidious shrieking or Jess's maniacal death wish, could shake me. I stood my ground. I kept my cool. I was more suave than Captain Jack Sparrow. I was more phlegmatic than James Bond. I was more fearless than Horatio Hornblower. And when we reached the other side, I rejected the gallant offers of my Senegalese classmates to carry me through the last few steps of shallow water. That was for the girly girls. I like muddy feet.

Mauritania was beautiful. Luxuriant mango trees hung along the banks of the river. We walked through a garden plot and chatted with an ancient man we met beside a little mud hut. Then we returned to the shade beside the green river, and I took a few leafy photos of my classmates who felt the urge to climb the trees. We were excited about the mangos. Jess cried out facetiously to a tree climber, "If you'll bring me down a mango I'll pleasure you eternally," in a drippingly seductive way. I snorted out an embarassed giggle. Sometimes I really HOPE that the Senegalese student's cannot follow Jessica's humorous English. We did finally get ahold of a mango, but it wasn't ripe. It was a measure of our hunger that plenty of people were still willing to devour it.

We sat in a circle and shared our thoughts and feelings about the day. Then we lay down among the fallen leaves or wandered our separate ways. With nothing to do but stare into the moving patterns of leaves, I fell into a sort of dreamy trance. And maybe its my sentimental, overactive imagination at work again. But I started to get this feeling that the land I was lying on was loved, deeply...... loved. Well, there was some evidence for that in the carefully tended garden patches, in the flourishing mango trees. But more than that, I started to get the feeling that the land was also LOVING. That like a tender mother, it cared for the people and creatures that lived on it. That with the wind tenderly lapping over me, I too was held in its embrace.

I know. Its hard to say things like this, without people asking you what mushrooms you've been eating. And I've been called an earth mama hippie chick more than my share of times. (It has to do with how I refuse to shave my armpits.) But is it scientific to deny the evidence of your senses? If my heart tells me something, why is that data inherently less reliable, than the data given me by my nose or eyes or ears? Is it so outrageous to say that if people take care of the land, the land will take care of them? To me it seems like logic. Relationships, even those with inanimate objects, are reciprocal. In order to receive, you have to know how to give.

Okay, now I've been enough of a flake for today. We made it back to Senegal without incident, by which time Ousmane's sister had managed to find some rice for us. Which we gobbled up like starving wolves. And forgive me for my aggressively nonchronological way of recounting events, but I think that pretty much covers the events of our Sunday tour of the Guede area. The next entry will be about my project (finally!) This seems to be a natural chapter break.