Cheb Shack Series in Dakar

So, I’ve been in Dakar for more than a month now healing from this massive burn, and while it takes its sweet time, there are major waves of FOMO (fear of missing out) washing over me because I’m not at my site. I wanted to be there especially for the month of MarchGADness (GAD standing for Gender and Development), which is like March Madness, but volunteers can rack up points by doing certain youth and gender activities in their community. So, about a couple weeks ago, a fellow volunteer also from Kedougou joined me in Sick Bay and we decided together that we don’t have to feel the dreaded FOMO because gender activities can be done right here in Dakar! And that’s just what we did. 

We made up a gender activity that involved having a discussion with random people at “cheb shacks” (Senegalese hubs for street food) about important gender and youth issues. Cheb, short for Chebbu Jen, is a traditional Senegalese dish made with rice lathered in oil, grilled or fried fish, boiled vegetables and sautéed onions. As for the discussions, all of them had very interesting things to say about this topic, which really helped us gain perspective on the Senegalese culture and its people. That’s why we’re in Peace Corps...right? 

Cheb Shack #1: Who makes the Cheb in your household? (gender roles in Senegalese households) 

The scene outside Cheb shack #1

Despite the slight language barrier between two Kedougou volunteers (we speak minority languages) and the people of Dakar, we were able to communicate with the peeps of Cheb Shack#1 in French. We asked a series of questions about who cooks at home, and we spoke to three regulars: a teenage boy, a man in his 30’s, and a 23 year-old. The two older men exclaimed that they can’t make Cheb and that’s a job for the women and children. On the other hand, the teenager makes Cheb for his whole family back in Guinea. All of them are unmarried, however, the 23-year old said he would want only one wife and wouldn’t mind if she wanted to work outside the house.

Cheb Shack #2: What are your thoughts on the Talibe?

The woman we interviewed and her two daughters 

Talibe are young boys that study the Quran at a school called a Daara, and you find them living in the streets of Senegal begging for food in order to learn valuable lessons about modesty. In Cheb Shack #2, we mostly talked to the woman who owned the shack about her thoughts on the Talibe. She respects this type of education and often gives her leftovers to them when they beg outside her shack. According to her, these boys have a hard life, but they tend to grow up to be tough adults. When we asked her if she would have her children in the Talibe, she stated that her son goes to Quranic school but lives at home. 

Cheb Shack #3: What are your thoughts on polygamy?

Barb talking to the peeps of Cheb Shack# 3

Me...just enjoying the food.

This discussion was interesting, which ended with one of the men asking if we wanted to be his second and third wife (joking, of course). In Senegal, the Muslim religion allows husbands to have more than one wife, so in Cheb shack #3, we asked two married men, a divorced man, and a married woman their opinions. The two men only have one wife but want more, and the women (who happened to be the Cheb shack owner!) was a second wife herself. All of them agreed that polygamy can be hard due to jealousy, financial burden, and competition amongst wives in the household. Even though the men didn’t notice that wives can be competitive with each other, Mrs. Cheb Shack Owner tried to convince them otherwise. On the other hand, she likes being a second wife because she and the first wife share household duties.  

Cheb Shack #4: What’s it like being a kid in Dakar?

The owners of Cheb Shack #4! 

For this one, we had the intention of asking questions about early marriage but realized that only children were running the shack! So, we changed course and asked a 17-year old girl and her older half-brother what their lives are like in Dakar. The 17-year old runs the shack with her sisters, and the older brother works at the local “garage” (hub for public transportation). The girl went to school, but dropped out due to a lack of interest and her brother attended high school and went straight to working. The girl aspires to go to trade school when she gets older, but all she’s ever known was work in her family’s Cheb shack. So, what about their parents? Well, their mom makes the Cheb at home and stops by every now and again to see how the business is going, and the father stays at home.

Every Cheb bowl we had was unique just like the people we interviewed, so it goes without saying that these interviews do not reflect everyone in Dakar or Senegal. But it was a lot of fun getting to know these fellow-cheb-shack-goers in Dakar and we hope to continue these interviews down in Kedougou. Watch out for Cheb shack series #2! 

Sick Bay

Day 0: run, shake, get burned (exactly what NOT to do)

It was a frigid Monday morning in Kedougou, and I woke up freezing. As I frustratingly untangled myself from my mosquito net around my bed and stepped onto the cold concrete floor of my hut, my first thought was to make a nice cup of hot coffee. I turned on the gas stove to boil the water and proceeded to put on a wrap skirt and a matching shirt. There happened to be a lot on my mind that morning, I had a visitor staying in my backyard, and later that week I needed to travel across the country to Thies for two weeks of service training. As these thoughts were burning through my mind, I was unknowingly standing right next to my gas stove. A warm sensation was felt near my right leg, and I looked down to realize that my wrap skirt caught fire.

I tried shaking it off, but it didn’t budge, so I turned off the gas stove and ran outside. The fire grew in a span of two fleeting seconds and crawled up my right thigh. I could feel my flesh getting roasted, and the skirt wasn’t coming off! Thankfully the visitor staying in his tent in my backyard heard me screaming and ripped it off right before the fire reached my torso. As he frantically stomped on the ball of fire that was skirt, I ran inside my hut hot with adrenaline and disbelief. My thigh was stinging.

I looked down to see that the skin was charred and falling off. Had no clue about the severity of it though.

The women in my village who heard me screaming came to my hut to say some Mandinke prayers to comfort me later that morning. However, the rest of that day was anxiety-ridden and difficult. I didn’t know how I was going to make it to service training, and the burn on my leg was leaking a lot of fluids.  I called the Peace Corps medical unit and they decided to transport me across the country to see how bad it was; a tough two-day journey from the deep bush of Kedougou to Dakar! I thought they might have been over-reacting…

I arrived in Dakar at 9 o’clock at night the next day, and a Peace Corps doctor was waiting for me anxiously in her office. The burn was throbbing and a little infected at that point. She looked at it and turned to me and asked me if I was Christian. I said yes, so she turned on some Bible music to calm me (and herself).

She made it clear that cleaning it was going to be excruciatingly painful and offered me the most powerful pain killer they had in stock. The burn was diagnosed as a deep second-degree burn that engulfed the entirety of my right thigh, about five percent of my body. I asked her if I can make it to my training in Theis, she laughed and firmly said “no.”

The next day, all four Peace Corps doctors wanted to see the burn. One said it was worst burn he’s ever seen on a Peace Corps volunteer, and another one said that I’m in for a long road to recovery. I still thought they were over-reacting.

Week 1: long road to recovery

Coming from the bush in one of the poorest regions in Senegal to the capital was exciting. I had access to “toubab” (white people) food, there were beaches in every direction, and every day I could get my cappuccino-with-croissant breakfast fix. I believed that I would be only treated for this burn for two weeks MAX and then go to service training to be with the rest of my peers. But dressing changes were painful because the gauze would stick to the raw wound, and it would sting anytime something touched it. All the nerves were intact and loved to scream.

Nevertheless, I spent the week masking the pain with pain killers and believing that it will heal quickly.

After week 1, the burn wasn’t healing quickly at all and the doctors said that I’ll be in “sick bay” for an indefinite amount of time. My grief set in, as I started to realize the severity of the burn. This meant that I’ll be missing service training, putting me behind the rest of my peers.

Week 2 and 3: dondin-dondin    

I was getting too comfortable in Dakar, and I was overcome with guilt and anxiety for missing training and being out of my site. Usually I would deal with this kind of stress by going for a run, but I substituted that with walking around Dakar a lot (too much, actually). The burn was healing too slowly, the dressing changes were still painful, and the wound still leaked plenty of fluids. This burn was a literal definition of “dondin-dondin” (little by little) that was scorched onto my skin.

This week, some of my peers from service training started funneling into “sick bay” for rolled ankles, allergic reactions, and appendicitis. Two medi-vacs occurred, which included a friend of mine (picture on the left). As she was getting ready to head home, I showed her some of Dakar. Walked a whopping six miles that day!

A day after she left though, the doctor noticed that the burn got infected again and stated that it may be because I’m walking around town too much. So, she decided to take me to the hospital and refer me to a burn specialist…apparently the best in Senegal. He looked at it, shrugged it off, and said that he can heal the thing in a week.

Three Senegalese men proceeded to aggressively clean the wound. It felt like they were scraping the infection off. I was screaming and crying, and the only thing they would say to calm me was “it’s finished,” but then proceed to clean it. When they actually finished, I embarrassingly crawled off of the bed and noticed the cleaning lady outside staring at me with concern.

Right now: day 20

It’s been three days since I started seeing the burn specialist, and they just did another dressing today. It was still painful, but bearable. They looked hopeful that it’ll heal by next week.

Writing this down is helping me realize how much of a bitch a burn wound can be, but it is helping me be thankful for what I have and what has happened.

If it wasn’t for that visitor staying with me, the burn would’ve been ten-times worse.

If it wasn’t for that Peace Corps doctor sending me to Dakar, it would’ve gotten infected in Kedougou.

If it wasn’t for those aggressive Senegalese doctors cleaning my wound, it wouldn’t have been on the right track to healing.

This wound seared on me is also teaching me a valuable lesson about patience and acceptance. I have no control over what happens next with this thing, but all I know is that it’ll take its sweet time…just like the experience of being a Peace Corps volunteer! Dondin-dondin.

Christmas Email

Merry Christmas everyone from Senegal! It’s been a crazy three months between now and training, but I made it through and as of three weeks ago, I’m officially a Peace Corps Volunteer! I haven’t been too good about sharing photos and updating everyone on my experiences, so I thought I would compile some of it in a nice Christmas email.

As I’m writing this, it’s hot in Senegal. The kind of heat that can dry a pair of soaking wet jeans in 30 minutes. This is the “cold season” here in Kedougou, a southern region in Senegal that will be my home for the next two years, Inshallah (God willing). My new home has chickens and goats roaming around freely, corn drying on the roof tops, and huts with squash vines growing on the walls. The sound of women pounding millet and rice all day long is always heard in the distance. I know what you’re thinking…and yes, this is a typical Peace Corps site with no running water or electricity.

Since moving here, days go by slowly. The men go to the fields to harvest peanuts, the women stay at home and cook, and the children are all at school. Lately, I’ve been spending my days hanging out with the women during the day and learning Jaxanke (the local language) with the men and children at night by the fire. Since moving here, I can’t help but think how raw this whole experience; life can be so rich when you’re not distracting yourself by the news or sitting behind a screen all day.

That's right folks, I got a hut dog.

But it goes without saying that these past three months have been overwhelming. It’s been a rollercoaster ride of emotions, where there would be days that I’m absolutely in love with the place and others when I just daydream of escaping to Europe. The biggest challenge is that it’s hard feeling like myself when it’s expected of me to speak a completely different language and conform to a strange culture. And of course, Senegal can take a tole on your physical health as well! Let’s just say…Western toilets are a God send. For these reasons, I have seen my peers around me leave to go back home. But despite these lows, I learn something new about the Senegalese and myself every day.

The Senegalese are very giving, honest, patient, and happy people that love to eat, laugh, and take on life one hour at a time. Being here, the culture has taught me that the only way to live a happy life is to live in the moment and let things happen “Dondin Dondin” (little by little). It’s this valuable lesson that gets me up in the morning and keeps me inspired to stay for the long haul.

With that being said, even though I miss home now more than ever during the holiday season, I try to remind myself to be in the present. I’m thankful to have an experience that is so rare and beautiful.

Partay!