Penda and the Baby

Ziguinchor, Senegal

I met Penda outside my hotel in Ziguinchor. She sat in her crafts stall, selling wooden carvings and trinkets made by her husband. Normally, I ignore the incessant chatter of souvenir vendors, but when she called me over, I went to her obediently.
"My sister," she said as she introduced herself.
Penda was a large, dark-skinned Wolof woman born in the Cassamance region of Senegal. She had a big, white smile that made me want to know her, and her apple cheeks reminded me of a Ghanaian's. I knew what was coming. I knew she wanted me to spend my money, and I could have turned away, but I stayed and listened to her anyway. She invited me to sit down, and for the next fifteen minutes or so she asked me about myself, every so often placing necklaces and keychains in front of me.
When I stood to leave, Penda asked me if I wanted to visit her home and family. I hesitated for a moment, thinking this was part of the sell, and I'd be forced to pay some extortionate price at the end of the visit. But how often had an African woman invited me into her life? I had come across many men who'd invited me to their homes to meet and dine with their families, but with women it hadn't been the same. They'd chat with me at their shops and restaurants, but forming friendships had been difficult. Considering this, I decided I did not care how much I had to pay. I wanted to experience Penda's life.
We took a taxi to the small house she shared with her sister, mother, nieces and nephews. I stood on Penda's porch and met her tiny daughter, who looked so much like her mother. Penda's own mother was there as well, and although she could not speak any French, she graciously accepted me into her home.
"Do you want to see the baby?" Penda asked.
"What baby? Do you have another child?"
"No," she smiled at me. "My sister has a new baby. He is three days old."
I followed her into the home. There was no door, just a sheet hanging from the top of the frame. It covered my face as Penda stepped into the room before me. I pulled it away and was met with a beautiful sight: mother and new baby, resting on a mattress on the floor of a bare room. There was a bag with some clothes in it and a floor fan plugged into the wall. Other than these two items, there was nothing. Nothing but people living in this house. People and this tiny, tiny baby.
Penda's sister sat up when she saw me. I greeted her and quickly apologized for disturbing her. "You must be very tired," I said.
She just smiled and looked down at her baby, a boy. He was wrapped in wax print cloth with only his fair-skinned head sticking out. He opened and closed his mouth slowly, as if tasting the new world around him. His mother scooped him up and held him for a minute before offering him in my direction. My arms hung motionless at my sides as I considered what this woman was giving me. She was about to hand me her newborn child. Me, a stranger, a white woman who could not speak her language or tell her how grateful I was to be there at that very moment. Slowly, I raised my hands to take her child, afraid to move too quickly around something so delicate.
I held this tiny thing tightly and looked at its big eyes, the little ears. I felt its soft, curly hair, not yet African to the touch. I smelled its head and recognized that new baby smell. I noticed, with some sense of familiarity, the small, white dots across the baby's nose. That's when I remembered holding another infant, this one in a hospital, way back in December 1990. My youngest sister was a similar size and she had the same white dots on her nose. I held her in my lap, just as carefully, but I could not remember feeling any overwhelming sense of amazement at the time. I felt it now, though, for the both of them, for baby Maisie and this little boy. It was a good feeling.
Penda sat next to me with her own daughter and beamed proudly at her sister and nephew. I sat with these two women for several hours , with this baby in my arms, and I floated between December 1990 and that moment. I thought of nothing else, not of where I had been or where I was going. I was grounded in this personal moment, and I reveled in its simplicity and natural beauty.
I stayed in Ziguinchor for two days, and in that time Penda invited me home twice more, feeding me on both occasions. I bought a couple of knick-knacks from her stall and a gift for the new baby, but she never asked me for money, as I had initially expected. By the end of our time together, it was clear that she enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed hers. Perhaps that was enough, or perhaps she'd never wanted anything from me in the first place. Later I thought about how trusting Penda and her sister had been to let me into their home, and I felt slightly guilty for not treating my new friend in the same way. But somewhere along the line we are taught to think this way. Someone, perhaps a parent, our teachers, or the media, warns us against putting too much trust in humanity. And we listen, we do, and many times we are better for it. But how many of these experiences have I missed out on as a result? How many times did I brush someone off because I simply could not believe he or she was being genuine? Still, I will never be like Penda. I will never be comfortable enough to invite a stranger into my home to hold my baby. But I am certainly glad she was.

Accepting Africa

Kayes, Mali, to Ziguinchor, Senegal

I like to think I am a tough woman.  I know Africa can be rough and exhausting, but I don't mind because I can handle it.  When I am stuck in traffic in intense heat, I just sit back and pretend I am in a sauna.  When I am patted down at a police checkpoint, I think of it as a complimentary massage. Accepting small annoyances allows me to enjoy Africa more. It makes everything easier, and I really do love to love this place.  But my limits were tested during two consecutive days of hellish travel.  By the end of the second day, I had reached a point where, for the first time in my adult life, I felt like calling my mother to ask if she could pick me up and take me home.

     It started in Kayes, Mali.  I had spent the night in the most disgusting youth hostel in existence, and I was eager to leave town.  I went to the station and was lucky enough to find an old bus, possibly the first ever made, departing for Tambacounda, Senegal.  After haggling over the price for about ten minutes, I purchased my ticket and hopped on.  For a moment I thought, "I hope this old thing doesn't break down." But then, all the cars in Africa are old and they usually to get where they're going.  250 kilometres and 14 hours later, I got where I was going, too.  After several stops to tighten a wheel that seemed to be loose, a four hour wait at Senegalese customs, and the loss of the bus door, we pulled into Tambacounda.  I was tired and my face was covered in dead insects from sitting too close to where the door had fallen off (we stopped to put it back on, but it wouldn't stay so the driver left it by the side of the road.) I found a hotel nearby and passed out for the remainder of the night.

     The next morning, I legged it to the autogare to catch a bush taxi to Ziguinchor, also in Senegal.  Bush taxis, in many West African countries, are old Peugot station wagons with one passenger seat in the front, three in the middle, and three more where the trunk should be.  In several countries, two people are condemned to the front seat, four suffer in the middle, and three languish in the back.  Luckily for me, the Senegalese taxis take seven passengers instead of nine.  I found one heading to Kolda, a town on the way to Ziguinchor, argued again over the price, then waited several hours for the car to fill up before hitting the road.

     By the time the taxi reached Kolda, the sun was starting to set. The driver offered to continue on to Ziguinchor and picked up several new passengers.  When I asked him if we'd reach Ziguinchor that evening, he replied, "Of course!" I briefly considered spending the night in Kolda, but decided to it was better to go to Ziguinchor, even if I did arrive late.  As the sun dropped out of sky, I leaned back in my seat and dozed, hoping to wake up at my destination.

     At 9pm the car pulled over  in a village.  The driver said something in the local language and everyone got out of the car.  Confused, I waited a moment before moving.  When no one got back in, I stepped out and asked one of the passengers why we were stopped.

     "We sleep here tonight, " he said casually.

     "Sleep where? In a compound? In someone's house?" I questioned.

     "No."

     I turned around and stared at the car, already feeling the kink I'd have in my neck the next morning. "In the car?" I asked, dreading his response.

    "No."

     No? What was he talking about?  Where were we supposed to sleep if not in a home or in the car?  Surely we weren't going to...camp?  I looked past the man to where some of the passengers, all male, were laying out thin, plastic sleeping mats.

    "Oh dear."

    This was not what I had expected.  I was expecting to arrive in Ziguinchor late at night, maybe around 10 or 11pm, and to check into a hostel where I could sleep in the next day. Instead, I would fall asleep on my tiny mat in the company of strangers.  Nor was I looking forward to relieving myself in the dark (there really are snakes all over Africa, you know!)

    I didn't want to do this, I decided.  I couldn't. I was too exhausted from the previous day to rough it anymore.  I wanted a bed.  I wanted a mattress.  At the very least I wanted somewhere to hang my mosquito net.  None of these things were possible, though, and I was soon resigned to my fate.  I moped around for a bit, feeling miserable.  I bought a soda but didn't drink it because I knew I'd have to pee it out later.  I talked at a local child in English for several minutes, telling her how tired and unhappy I was until she walked away.  Finally, I crawled onto my mat, curled up into a ball, and tried to go to sleep.

     About an hour later, I heard everyone moving around.  The other passengers were picking up their mats and searching for cover.  I looked up at the sky. It was windy, but it didn't look like it would rain. "I'll just stay here," I thought.

     A man poked his head out of the door of a bakery slightly up the road from me. "Madame! Come! Come sleep in here! It will rain!" he shouted.

     I didn't believe him, but my mind felt comatose so I followed his orders.  I picked up my mat and purse and walked over to the bakery.  When I stepped inside, I saw several people sleeping on the floor.  The man who had called me motioned for me to come behind the counter.  I did as he wanted and saw that there were two large bread cubbies underneath it, one occuppied by a tiny snoozing gentleman, the other by a small stack of baguettes.  It quickly dawned on me that this was where I would be sleeping.  I looked down at my feet and saw a cockroach scurry past.  I sighed, crouched down and wedged myself into the cubby.  I could feel something like flour or crumbs on my skin.  

     Despite my fatigue, I couldn't sleep for more than half an hour at a time.  The bakers were working away in the back, making lots of noise as they went, and I was too conscious of rubbing my head against the baguettes piled next to me. At 2:30 am, after another short sleeping spell, I awoke to a slapping noise.   I listened to it and decided that it had to be the bakers slapping bread dough around.  It sounded as if they were whacking it against any available surface.  I stared at the ceiling of my cubby and tried to think positively about my situation, but I found the task too difficult.  Soon I heard another sound, soft at first, then pounding. It was raining.

     I listened to the sky fall against the tin roof of the bakery.  I was wide awake now.  As I inhaled the scents of dough and wet earth, I whispered to myself, "I accept this."  Then I waited for daylight.

Bamako Burger

Bamako, Mali

"Ugh."
I groaned as I wiped more sweat off my forehead. It was early afternoon in Bamako, Mali's capital city, and the dry heat was cooking me alive. I had been wandering around all morning, taking in the sights, and I figured now was a good time to sit and have a drink. I started looking for a roadside cafe when I came across a fancy-looking, air-conditioned restaurant and patisserie. I ducked inside.
"Bonjour," a woman greeted me from behind the counter. She stood behind a glass case of pastries and cakes, each one looking as delectable as the next. At the end of the counter was a refrigerator full of cold sodas, and beside that was functioning ICEE machine. This place was heavenly.
I looked around for a food menu, but couldn't find one. I asked the woman if she had one, and she quickly listed all the food on offer, in French of course. I acknowledged her as if I understood what she had said, but in reality the only word I recognized was 'ham', and I was not about to order a plate of lunch meat. I stood there, wanting to eat but clueless as to what I could order. As I was about to request a piece of ham, another customer approached the counter and ordered an am-boor-ger. Immediately, I repeated what the man had said.
"Am-boor-ger, please," I said.
My ordering crisis over, I took a seat and waited for my meal. Soon enough, the woman brought me my am-boor-ger-- the biggest, best dressed hamburgerI had ever seen. In the western world, the standard hamburger consists of a meat patty within a bun, adorned with tomato, lettuce, pickle and sometimes onion. Ketchup and mustard often make appearances, as well. The Bamako burger, on the other hand, utilizes the same same bun and meat recipe, but with the additional ingredients of french fries (yes, on the burger) and a fried egg. And lots of ketchup and mayonnaise, of course.
I stared at the beast on my plate and wondered if I should have just ordered the ham. Unable to fit my mouth around any part of it, I picked up my knife and fork and sliced into the burger. As I ate in pieces, a well-dressed man with an authoritative air about him emerged from the kitchen. Another female worker followed him, and it appeared he was leading some sort of staff training. The man noticed me and paused from his activities, asking, "Anglais ou Francais?"
"Anglais," I replied.
"English? You speak English? I speak English small-small. How are you feeling?"
"I am fine, thank you," I replied.
"Where are you from?"
"California. In America."
"And what are you eating?"
"I am having your hamburger."
He paused at this. I wondered if I had offended him in some way. Before I had a chance to think about it, he proclaimed, "An American eating our am-boor-ger!"
He turned to his colleagues to translate.
"The chef! The chef! Bring the chef out here!" he ordered.
In a moment, an apprehensive-looking chef appeared. With the entire restaurant staff assembled before me, the manager turned to me and asked,"What do you think of our burger? Is it good?"
I stared at this line of people awaiting my response. The manager was literally leaning over the counter in anticipation. The chef removed his hat and looked at me anxiously. The female workers were slumped over the pastries case, waiting for my verdict so that they could return to their work. I briefly considered asking if it is standard to put an egg and fries on a burger, but the chef looked dangerously close to a stroke so I held my tongue. Instead, I responded,"It's great! It's one of the best burgers I've ever had!"
"HA!" The manager banged his hands on the counter. "She loves it!"
He quickly translated my comments to the staff. A look of relief spread across the chef's face, and both he and the manager came over to my table to shake my hand.
"The best am-boor-ger she's ever had!"cried the manager.
"Well, I said it was one of the best..." I muttered, but the the manager took no notice. He was thrilled that his giant, beefy boor-ger had passed the American taste test.
"An American eating our am-boor-ger! And it's the best!" he repeated.
"Thank you! Thank you!" cried the chef.
"It's the best!" shouted the manager again, as one of the women handed him a piece of paper.
"You love our am-boor-ger, " sang the manager as he leaned over the table, placing the paper next to me. "And here is your bill."
And with that, he and the chef left me to decide how much I really liked their am-boor-ger.

Le Voleur

Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso

It was evening in Bobo-Dioulasso, and I sat at a table on a small patio enclosed in the courtyard of my auberge. Across from me, an older French couple sat with the owner, sharing drinks and stories. Except for the patio lights hanging from the corrugated iron ceiling, the world around us was black. As I leafed through my West African guide book, I heard footsteps at the gate. I looked up to see a young African man approaching the patio.
"Bonsoir," I said politely. I don't know if he heard me.
He greeted the owner and asked if drinks were served here. "Oui," the owner replied, rising from his chair.
"I'll have a coke," said the young man in French. He sat down at the table directly next to the French couple and handed the owner a 500 CFA coin, equivalent to $1 USD. The owner left the patio to fetch the man's order.
I watched the young man, whose back was to me, and wondered why he was by himself. This place was in a quiet neighborhood, and it wasn't really a drinking destination for anyone but lodgers. And other than the French couple, I was the only one.
The young man called out to someone in a language other than French. The only reply came from outside the gate, where someone started a moped engine. The young man repeated whatever it was he had said. I heard the engine again, and this time a voice responded along with it, although I could not tell what it said.
"He has someone with him," I thought, "but why doesn't his friend come inside? Why doesn't he park his moped in the courtyard?"
Quite literally as I thought this, the young man stood up as if to adjust his pants. As quickly as he stood, he leaned over the adjacent table and snatched the French woman's purse. I saw him leaning over, but my voice was too slow to respond.
"Hey!" I shouted.
I jumped out of my seat and ran a few steps after him, but he was so quick-- and what could I have done anyway? Was I going to tackle him? Jump on a bike and chase him down? The French couple raced towards the gate, and the owner came running out of reception. They were all too late, though, as the thief had already sped away on his accomplice's moped.
"Voleur!" shouted the owner. "Thief!"
I stood there for a moment, shocked, uncertain what to say, unsure what to do. The French woman walked back to the table, remarkably calm, and lit a cigarette. She proceeded to pace back and forth in front of me, obviously processing what had just occurred. I watched her, wishing I could offer some sort of consolation. I wanted to help, but there was nothing I could do. My inability to communicate in French, coupled with the theft, left me feeling terribly helpless. I returned to my seat, where I sat quietly and tried hard to understand what everyone was saying.
The couple agreed that they should report the incident to the police. This was merely a formality, probably for insurance purposes more than anything else, since there was really nothing the police could do. The owner offered to take the French woman to the station. They jumped on his moto and zipped out of the courtyard. The French man followed them out into the street, where he stood by himself for some time.
On my own now, I started to wonder at this young man's situation. Something must have prompted him to steal. He must have felt that he needed to. But he had been dressed nicely. Was he really desperate, or was he just greedy? How many people had he stolen from? How long did it take him to conceive this scam? Was he nervous as he was stealing? As soon as I'd posed these questions to myself, I knew I would never have answers for any of them. I struggled with the way I felt: shocked, frustrated, angry. I wished I had not seen what had happened moments earlier. I wished I would stop thinking about it.
In that moment, the electricity cut out, and I was instantly swallowed by the night. Alone in the darkness, all I could do was think.

Long and Fat

Accra, Ghana

Several weeks into my stay in Accra, I found myself back in the classroom of the Street Academy. Standing before the same group of students I had worked with in 2007, I attempted to fill in for an absent English teacher. The lesson of the day: adjectives. The children were unfamiliar with this word, so I asked them to look at me and tell me what they saw; the words they'd use would be adjectives.
"What do I look like?" I asked. "Am I white or black? Do I look happy or sad?"
For a moment they were silent. Then a girl in the front row shouted, "Long!"
"Long?" I repeated.
"You are long!" she said.
The rest of the students made noises in agreement. In my floor-length blue dress, I suppose I did look "long", like a giant crayon. However, this wasn't a word I was looking for, so in my most teacherly tone, I began to correct the girl.
"Good," I started, "but in English, we don't say long, we say---"
"Fat!" Someone in the back row had continued to describe me.
"Uh, I'm sorry?" I stopped.
"You are fat!" another student offered.
"Yes, fat!" came another little voice.
This was definitely not a word I'd been looking for. "Hmm, let's think of another word to describe me. Something more...accurate."
The children all paused to think. Then, after a brief silence, came that word again, this time more forceful, like a war-cry. "Fat!" It was followed by a chorus of "Long! Fat! Long and fat!" I imagined them practicing this vocal ambush behind the school the day before, the girl in the front row pretending to be me, waddling around as the children shouted "Fat fatty!" after her. I bet they even poisoned their teacher so that I would have to play substitute! These kids!
"Fat?" I questioned, putting my hands up to silence them. "Well, I'm not really fat, am I? I mean, in the grand scheme of things...chubby, maybe, but fat? Come on! I mean, fat? Really? Really? Maybe you mean healthy?"
The girl in the front row ignored my ramblings. "Madam, you are long," she said, raising her hands high to indicate height, "and fat." This time she spread her arms wide, as if she were hugging an elephant.
"Long and fat," chimed another student.
The children repeated this phrase to each other several times, agreeing that this was the best way to describe me, and proud that they'd come up with the proper adjectives in English.
I sighed. "Well, fat aside, in English we do not use 'long' to describe a person's height. We use the adjective 'tall' instead."
"Tall, " they whispered to themselves.
The girl in the front row looked up at me, nodding her head. "Yes, madam, you are right."
"About what?" I asked.
"You are tall. Tall and fat."

Word on the Street: Signs, Posters and Billboards around Accra

Accra, Ghana

A billboard advertising different styles of women's wigs:
"Super curly! Freaky! Oprah!"

A banner hanging outside a bar:
"Pork show, opening soon!"

A bumper sticker on a public bus:
"I'm afraid of my friends...EVEN YOU."

An Accra road sign:
"SLOW, PHARMACY AHEAD!"

A security company's office sign:
"F.R.A.T. SQUARD SECURITY"

A notice posted in a public restroom:
"Ladies! Do not squart over toilets! No squartting!"

The Ghanaian Driver's Manual

Accra, Ghana

Driving like a local takes a certain amount of skill. The following steps will ensure that the automobile driver travels in an appropriately Ghanaian fashion.

1) Enter traffic in the oldest car, van or jalopy you can find. If your car does not turn on right away, have local men push your vehicle into the street, where you will coast until the engine starts.

2) Always drive at high speeds, especially when traffic is heavy or pedestrians are present.

3) If your cell phone rings, simultaneously answer it and purchase plantain chips from a street hawker. As long as your hands are near the wheel and your foot is on the gas pedal, you are still practicing acceptable driving.

4) To change lanes, honk several times as you maneuver right or left. There is no need to signal. If traffic is heavy, wedge the front corner of your automobile before the car next to you. Slowly inch forward until you are dangerously close to damaging both vehicles, or sit there until a cacophony of horns ensues. Eventually, the other driver will have to let you in to avoid a traffic standstill.

5) When transporting passengers, fill your vehicle with people until it has exceeded capacity twice over. Remember that seatbelts, if present, only serve a decorative purpose and aren’t intended for actual use.

Repeat steps 1-5 in order to drive safely and effectively throughout Ghana. And remember: when in doubt, shout it out! If you are uncertain as to who has right of way, or you don’t know why traffic is so heavy, or you are just plain frustrated, shout at your fellow drivers until the situation favors you. Happy travels!