The Fifth Sense: Touch, Feels, etc.

For those of you that have been following my blog you know that I agreed to do posts on the five senses.  I have not forgotten that I still have one left.  The most difficult to accumulate details worthy of the written word but I figure a year in and I've touched a lot. Time to give you a sense.

The feel of new born babies (literally a few days old).  The feel of a recently shaved head (baby or otherwise).  Shucking peanuts on a hard service, enough to give you blisters.  Shucking corn, also gives you blisters.  Mixing cucumbers together for salad, with your bare hands.  Wiping your tush.  Pouring water over your head as a shower.  Baby peeing/pooping on your lap.  Holding up a bleating baby goat upside down.  Rubbing dirt encrusted on your face in sweat off your face.  Shucking beans (if that is the correct verbiage for that). Working in the gardens/fields with hand tools all day and also receiving blisters.

This is a short post. I'm sure can get the picture but I cannot think of much more now.

Some recent updates

For those of you that read my last two blog posts, I have updates for both.

Apparently there is a fourth option for my sister Sorkna.  She can do the last year of primary school again in Botou and try again for the middle school in Tamba next year.  One of our teachers came to our compound yesterday and talked to Raki about it. Let's hope she makes it!

The second point, as I was delivering photos to Tacko yesterday she mentioned that I should have told her I don't like to take photos at night (because of the shitty flash I have) because they would have moved the dance party to the afternoon when there is daylight.  Next time, I told her, next time.

A sad reality

A few months ago, I posted a photo of one of my host sisters Sorkna with a caption stating that she had scored first on her exam and would be going to middle school in Tamba. Unfortunately this is not true and was never true. I did not deceive you on purpose nor was I deceived myself. I am here to try and understand the qualities that now go into my kind, smart witted, and caring sister staying in Botou and ending her formal education.


We have a primary school in Botou. Kids can begin to go to school around age 4/5 but many wait until much later either because their parents don't care or because they need them to help around the house or in the fields. The teachers that come to the school in Botou generally do not choose to teach here. They are sent here by the government via the department of education (affecté). Many of the teachers are quite young, some haven't even been to university but rather received teaching qualifications through a certificate program.  Some are quality teachers, passionate about teaching and interested in helping their students succeed. But many take a laissez faire attitude toward teaching. The style of teaching mimics that of the French, memorizing lessons word for word and regurgitating them in class. Many students also miss days here and there often because they are helping with harvests, child care, laundry, what have you. This combination can make a perfect storm or a perfect rainbow. In the case of my sister, the former. Her teacher was a new director to the school. Very rarely did I actually see him teaching. Even rarer did I see Sorkna pull out her notebook after school and read or learn her lessons. And never did I see her parents helping her or encouraging her to study. This year was her second attempt at going to middle school. One day in June she went to Tamba and took the entrance exam. A few weeks later she told me that she had gotten first and I took this to mean placed first in the exam and would be attending school in Tamba. So I posted the photo. It has become apparent to me now that whatever she recorded "first" in was not related to her ability to go to middle school (I am still not sure what she was referring to). It looks like she won't be going to school, likely ever again. There are three possibilities that can come out of the exam for middle school. 1) you pass and go to the next year with zero restrictions 2) you pass and proceed to the next year but you are on probation and must take the same exam after the first year of middle school 3) you do not pass and you end your schooling

This is public school. This is Senegal. This is what happened to Sorkna.


School starts on Monday.  We have a new school director, someone from Botou which I believe that will be very beneficial to Botou and the students in the near future.  He held a meeting for both the mamas and the papas of the students and was very concerned with low number of students that have been passing the exam to go to school in Tamba.  He has brought the attention to the parents, telling them that they need to be concerned and active parents with their students if they want to succeed.  The parents seemed to hear this, but we will have to see what happens in the months to come.

Dancing in the name of

My one year anniversary was the 21st of September. One year since I arrived in Senegal, had a thermometer shoved in my ear to check and make sure I didn't have Ebola and landed my feet in the hot, and tropical climate that is Senegal. Most people might get sentimental at this point, reminiscing about all the things they've learned about themselves, about their work partners, family members, etc. and about what they are looking forward to in the 14 months to come. I too, might have written such a post if Tacko had decided not to have a dance party in my honor. It was a few days before the big Senegalese holiday when I went over to her house for something and she told me that in a few days "we are going to dance and play." I asked her what for and she answered, "for Halima". Not knowing exactly what that meant (maybe another slip up of my Bambara language skills) I sort of put that into the back filing cabinet of my brain. Later I asked Raki what she meant and why they were going to dance. "To make you happy," she said, and happy I was made.

It was organized for Sunday afternoon but when Tacko came over only a few other women showed up because they were still busy greeting people for the holiday. It was suggested that they do it after dinner (a time when many of you know I hit the sack and read). I decided I could probably stay up for an hour or so and watch the women dance. So during dinner women from my village came filing in, dressed to the nines, and with hollowed out gourd bowl and baignoire of water at the ready the dancing begun. They sang my name, and danced their hearts out. One woman, Sambura, about 80 years old, sang her heart out, orating my name and my redeemable qualities as a human (toubab) and as a worker. Singing in then name of Halima Fofana the women danced together, danced apart, and shook their booties until sweat was dripping off their foreheads and onto the ground. It was fantastic. I joined them in my hideous attempts at dancing Senegalese style, and I laughed, smiled and occasionally hooted my praise at their amazing moves and incredible energy. The greatest part about this celebration was just that, their energy and their celebration. The focus, at least for me, was on the women and the way their bodies move to the beat of the gourd and the pleasure they get out of dancing.