On Saturday the junior high in my town held an ‘ouverture du foyer,’ which as near as I can figure translates to what we would call an open house. They had tentatively scheduled it for the end of April a month or two ago, but in the end it was somewhat hastily thrown together, left to the last minute because they weren’t sure until the last whether the school would be able to afford to pay for the event. Major expenditures included rental of two tents for shade, a large mat for a stage, beignets and bissap juice or snacks for guests, lunch for about forty invitees, and some of the students, and above all the rental of a major stereo system to beckon the entire village at large to come to see what all the noise was about.
Having been invited by the director of the school and told events would be starting at nine, I foolishly showed up at nine thirty. I had originally planned to show up even later than that, but around nine fifteen, I suddenly started worrying that this was going to be the one time Senegalese people were going to actually show up on time and if I went too late I would miss something important. Turns out I should have followed my instincts and dawdled a bit more, because even after showing up a half hour late I ended up sitting around for two hours having my ears blasted out by Senegalese pop music used playing on giant speakers to herald the townspeople.
Things finally got started a little before eleven thirty. The event commenced with a welcome song by a group of students, followed by a series of short speeches by various guests and officials. There were so many speeches, in fact, that I began to grow worried that all the guests were expected to give one, including me. I hastily began composing a speech in French in my head, hoping I wouldn’t forget to thank the director of the school for inviting me or commit another gaffe like omitting to greet any of the various officials in attendance, but fortunately it didn’t come to that and they proceeded to the student presentations without testing my extemporaneous speech-making skills.
The first presentation was by the English Club, and as I had helped them rehearse for the event, I felt a vested interest in their success. There were two poems and two songs planned and I have to say a group of about fifteen boys spontaneously rushing the stage to dance along with one of their classmates singing that Senegalese favorite, ‘My African Queen,’ narrowly beat out as the highlight a grinning seventeen year old decked out in navy dress pants blazer over a pink and white plaid shirt with a blue and yellow striped tie, topped off with a pair of brown and tan dress shoes, reciting a poem about the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.
The Literature Club followed this act with a theater sketch on the more sober topic of forced marriage. The story centered around a girl whose father wanted her to marry a rich friend of his. She tells him she doesn’t want to marry an old man. She is at the top of her class and doesn’t want to quit school. He threatens to kick her out of the house if she doesn’t do as he says. The girl tells the teachers at her school of her plight and they assure her they will intervene on her behalf, ultimately convincing her father that allowing her to continue her studies will be a good investment for the future- when she finishes school she will be able to get a good job and help support the whole family.
This hopeful ending was undercut by a sad parallel in reality. Two teachers were discussing the theater sketch over lunch and deploring the existence of forced marriages in general when a composed young woman politely interrupted and asked if she might comment. Her situation eerily mirrored the drama played out by the students. She, too, was a top student- in fact, she was one of two students sent to the Sinthiou Garba exposition as representatives of their school in another town. She told us her father wanted her to marry a friend of his in Dakar, and when she refused, he kicked her out of the house; she is now living with her grandmother so she can continue going to school. Her voice was steady throughout this narration, but partway through, tears started spilling down her cheeks, belying her apparent calm.
This was not the first time I have encountered a story like this, but fortunately the other instance I am thinking of had a happier ending. My neighbor, Louga, went crying to her teacher because her family had suddenly sent her to live with her husband, to whom she had been promised since she was a little girl. She told her teacher she did not want to be married yet, she wanted to continue her studies. Her teacher talked to her family, and Louga ultimately came home and went back to school. Even in this case, all hope is not lost- the teachers told her to talk to her school director and ask the teachers at her school to intervene on her behalf. They told her there was a law prohibiting forced marriages enacted specifically to prevent this kind of situation from occurring, so her father is technically legally bound to support her if she chooses to continue her schooling.
Later in the afternoon, as I watched an inter-class academic competition, another skit, and a presentation by the ‘Sinthiou Garba Dance Troupe,’ my mind kept straying to the girl with the poised air and sad story. I find the occurrence of forced marriages and girls being pulled out of school to start having kids at fifteen alarming and upsetting, but the teachers told me it is a dying practice that would soon disappear. I can only hope they are right.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Four toubabs walked into a radio station...
My friend Kris has been talking about doing a radio show practically since we arrived in Senegal. He had done some work with a radio station in Mali, organizing health-themed soap operas in between commentaries on soccer matches, and was interested in doing something similar. At first I dismissed this as a preposterous scheme (who in their right minds would let random Americans commandeer a Senegalese radio station for two hours every month?), but after a while, word trickled down the Peace Corps pipeline that some of our fellow volunteers started a radio program in the region of Kedougou, down in the southern part of the country. At this point I conceded the idea wasn't quite as absurd as I originally thought, but I remained skeptical. Then my friend Jenni checked around and found out one of her host brothers worked at a local radio station and all of a sudden the whole plan started to sound a lot more feasible.
Kris and Jenni had a preliminary meeting at the radio station and came back discouraged. They hadn't been able to meet with the director of the station, and the man they did meet with wasn't very enthusiastic. I tagged along to the next meeting, though, and we were able to meet with the director at that time. We proposed our idea- an hour long radio program with health lessons, interviews, and short skits, all interspersed with American music to keep it lively. He nodded, and took some notes, but said very little. We blathered on nervously for awhile, and then as we sort of drifted into silence he looked up and said, 'Well, when do you want to start?'
We were a bit taken aback, and completely unprepared for the question. After a hurried consultation, we tentatively proposed a date. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘What time?’ We settled on eleven am (any earlier and it would be difficult for us to get there on time from our respective villages), and asked him if we should come by before the program to run through the details and maybe learn how to work some of the equipment. He seemed unconcerned by the fact that he would be ceding his station to complete novices without a teaspoon of technical savvy or radio know-how between them, and brushed aside our anxious questions as unnecessary. The only thing he wanted to know before we went on the air was what the name of our program was going to be. We all looked at each other in dismay- we hadn’t even thought of that. We drew a collective blank, and told him we’d have to get back to him. (Ultimately, we decided on the uncreative ‘Health Hour.’ I have no defense for this; I can only say it’s marginally better than the other frontrunner, which was ‘Toubab Hour,’ and that it sounds slightly more interesting in Pulaar.).
Ten minutes later we walked out of the station, partly elated, partly dumbfounded. We’d gone in thinking we’d be lucky to lay the groundwork for a preliminary proposal, and then we were essentially handed our own show practically gift-wrapped. We decided to do the first show with just the four of us (here I include our other friend Jane as well as myself and the original two schemers), so we could introduce ourselves and the program, and test out our Pulaar radio skills. Our first show was on that ever-popular health topic, diarrhea, and included a short lesson about oral rehydration solution, and two short skits.
Perhaps not all of you know this about me, but I am afflicted with a particularly bad case of stage fright, which apparently applies even when there is technically no stage involved, as in radio, and is somewhat exacerbated by the thought of performing in Pulaar. I tell you all this by means of saying I was extremely nervous in the time leading up to the broadcast, a feeling which was not improved when all of a sudden eleven o clock snuck up on us and the director checked his watch and announced it was time to go. We all looked at each other slightly panicked. What happened to a few minutes preparation with the equipment? Fortunately, as we were ushered into a small room that serves as the basis of all broadcasts out of Radio Dunyaa, we realized not much technical expertise would be required of us. The four of us were expected to arrange ourselves around two microphones, and everything else would be handled by our technician, Mr. Diop. You’d think that just talking into two microphones wouldn’t be too much to ask from four sophisticated Americans who grew up with the advent of blackberries, palm pilots, and mp3 players, but some of us still managed to have technical difficulties by way of continuously forgetting to speak close enough to the microphone (me).
Before we even got started my nerves were ratcheted up another notch when the clock struck eleven and the director himself sat down in front of the controls and started announcing our show in a positively booming voice. ‘Ringing tones’ doesn’t even begin to cover it- I mean, this guy would put a carnival barker to shame. It wasn’t just his decibel level- he was talking up our show like it was the main event in a three ring circus. I don’t know what I expected (maybe to sneak on the air quietly and hope no one would notice?), but this did nothing to ease my anxiety. Fortunately, Jane relieved me of the responsibility of speaking first at the last minute or we might never have gotten started, but once we got going there was nothing for it but to stop thinking and let the Pulaar roll. The rest of the show went fairly smoothly, and if I flubbed my lines in the skits, at least everyone was kind enough not to mention it.
We did our second show on prenatal consultations, and I took primary responsibility for arranging our first guest stars. I started talking up the idea at my health post right after the first show, trying to get a feel for who might want to be involved, and enthusiastic about having a native speaker or two to relieve the burden of public Pulaar speaking on the air. With that in mind, this time around my nervousness revolved around being a good hostess to my guests. Having been on the receiving end of it quite a bit, I know that hospitality is important to Senegalese people, but I wasn’t quite sure what was expected of me in this particular situation, except I was reasonably certain it would involve orange soda.
Orange soda is the Senegalese equivalent of champagne- crucial at weddings and in honor of esteemed guests. I’m not too sure how this tradition evolved, though it does seem more appropriate for the predominantly Islamic Senegalese- non-alcoholic and much cheaper. And I have to say that on a 115 degree day, given the choice between champagne and a cold orange soda, I would go for orange soda every time. So with my bottle of orange soda in tow, I set out the morning of the broadcast to collect my guests. I was especially eager to make a good impression because it turned out to be much harder to convince people to be on our show than I thought it would be.
The nurse who heads the health post seemed willing enough, but he’s from a different part of the country and only speaks French and Wolof, so we would need another person to translate into Pulaar for him. At first I thought our pharmacist would do it- he’s outgoing and personable, and I thought he would get a kick out of being a guest on a radio show. But the night before night before the show I stopped by to confirm that everything was set, and the pharmacist blythely informed me that he had a meeting scheduled in Matam the next day, which of course he hadn’t mentioned any of the six times previously I’d asked him. I was a bit flummoxed, but the nurse told me he wanted Marie Sow, our head mid-wife, to do it anyway. Naturally, he hadn’t mentioned this plan to Marie.
I had mentioned it to her when I’d first started pitching the idea, but she’d seemed rather lukewarm about the whole thing, so I hadn’t pushed it. Now I had to go to her and essentially beg her to come at the last minute. She wasn’t wild about the idea (apparently Pulaars aren’t immune to the malady of stage fright, either). Eventually she agreed, but only, as she said with a sigh, because I am her daughter-in-law.
Before any of you start making hasty assumptions about what exactly I’ve been up to since coming to Senegal, I should probably explain that this comment was the result of a long-standing joke between the two of us, stemming from her trying to convince me to marry her twenty-five year old son and take him to America and me attempting to deflect the proposition by saying I’d rather marry her other son, a gap-toothed charmer by the name of Ablaye, but that I’d probably better wait a few years as he's only fifteen. She found this hilarious, and started greeting me by saying ‘My daughter-in-law!’ every time she saw me from that point on. I respond by saying, ‘My mother-in-law!’ every time I see her (both are the same word in Pulaar). Anyway, seeing as it ended up security a crucial part of our show, I’ve never been more grateful that I’d promised myself to a fifteen year old. Thank goodness for family connections.
The second show consisted of an interview with our two guest stars designed to inform people of the importance of prenatal consultations and two skits with the same aim. Having local language speakers relieve the burden of producing our own imperfect Pulaar really made the time fly, and everyone seemed happy with how the show went, especially after I treated our guest stars to a nice lunch as a thank you.
The funniest about all of this was the reaction we’ve been getting to the show. After the first show, we were a bit giddy and relieved that we’d gotten through the first performance generally unscathed, but we were completely unprepared for random people to stop us on the street and tell us they liked our program. I guess it wasn’t too much of a stretch for people seeing four white people together coming from the general direction of the radio show, but the following week I was with Marie on the way back, and a woman in the car with us turned around and asked if we were the ones she’d heard on the radio a couple of hours before. I don’t know how Marie felt about it, but I for one found it somewhat disconcerting to be a recognizable radio personality all of a sudden. Then when I got back to my village one of my neighbors told me a friend of his in Diandiolly (a small town 3 kilometers from my town) told him she heard me on the radio station. I was surprised how many people tuned in- of course it probably helps that there are only three stations to choose from, but still.
What I found even more surprising was how enthusiastic people were about the show. I mean, there is the novelty of four white people presenting in Pulaar, but you can only make prenatal consultations so exciting. Part of me still can’t believe this whole radio scheme has actually come together. But overall, people said they really enjoyed the show, and more importantly, understood our Pulaar. I for one was extremely grateful for this assurance (I don’t care if people are lying to my face, as long as they are saying nice things).
I’ve had a lot of unexpected experiences in Peace Corps, but I have to say, becoming a radio celebrity pretty much takes the cake.
Kris and Jenni had a preliminary meeting at the radio station and came back discouraged. They hadn't been able to meet with the director of the station, and the man they did meet with wasn't very enthusiastic. I tagged along to the next meeting, though, and we were able to meet with the director at that time. We proposed our idea- an hour long radio program with health lessons, interviews, and short skits, all interspersed with American music to keep it lively. He nodded, and took some notes, but said very little. We blathered on nervously for awhile, and then as we sort of drifted into silence he looked up and said, 'Well, when do you want to start?'
We were a bit taken aback, and completely unprepared for the question. After a hurried consultation, we tentatively proposed a date. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘What time?’ We settled on eleven am (any earlier and it would be difficult for us to get there on time from our respective villages), and asked him if we should come by before the program to run through the details and maybe learn how to work some of the equipment. He seemed unconcerned by the fact that he would be ceding his station to complete novices without a teaspoon of technical savvy or radio know-how between them, and brushed aside our anxious questions as unnecessary. The only thing he wanted to know before we went on the air was what the name of our program was going to be. We all looked at each other in dismay- we hadn’t even thought of that. We drew a collective blank, and told him we’d have to get back to him. (Ultimately, we decided on the uncreative ‘Health Hour.’ I have no defense for this; I can only say it’s marginally better than the other frontrunner, which was ‘Toubab Hour,’ and that it sounds slightly more interesting in Pulaar.).
Ten minutes later we walked out of the station, partly elated, partly dumbfounded. We’d gone in thinking we’d be lucky to lay the groundwork for a preliminary proposal, and then we were essentially handed our own show practically gift-wrapped. We decided to do the first show with just the four of us (here I include our other friend Jane as well as myself and the original two schemers), so we could introduce ourselves and the program, and test out our Pulaar radio skills. Our first show was on that ever-popular health topic, diarrhea, and included a short lesson about oral rehydration solution, and two short skits.
Perhaps not all of you know this about me, but I am afflicted with a particularly bad case of stage fright, which apparently applies even when there is technically no stage involved, as in radio, and is somewhat exacerbated by the thought of performing in Pulaar. I tell you all this by means of saying I was extremely nervous in the time leading up to the broadcast, a feeling which was not improved when all of a sudden eleven o clock snuck up on us and the director checked his watch and announced it was time to go. We all looked at each other slightly panicked. What happened to a few minutes preparation with the equipment? Fortunately, as we were ushered into a small room that serves as the basis of all broadcasts out of Radio Dunyaa, we realized not much technical expertise would be required of us. The four of us were expected to arrange ourselves around two microphones, and everything else would be handled by our technician, Mr. Diop. You’d think that just talking into two microphones wouldn’t be too much to ask from four sophisticated Americans who grew up with the advent of blackberries, palm pilots, and mp3 players, but some of us still managed to have technical difficulties by way of continuously forgetting to speak close enough to the microphone (me).
Before we even got started my nerves were ratcheted up another notch when the clock struck eleven and the director himself sat down in front of the controls and started announcing our show in a positively booming voice. ‘Ringing tones’ doesn’t even begin to cover it- I mean, this guy would put a carnival barker to shame. It wasn’t just his decibel level- he was talking up our show like it was the main event in a three ring circus. I don’t know what I expected (maybe to sneak on the air quietly and hope no one would notice?), but this did nothing to ease my anxiety. Fortunately, Jane relieved me of the responsibility of speaking first at the last minute or we might never have gotten started, but once we got going there was nothing for it but to stop thinking and let the Pulaar roll. The rest of the show went fairly smoothly, and if I flubbed my lines in the skits, at least everyone was kind enough not to mention it.
We did our second show on prenatal consultations, and I took primary responsibility for arranging our first guest stars. I started talking up the idea at my health post right after the first show, trying to get a feel for who might want to be involved, and enthusiastic about having a native speaker or two to relieve the burden of public Pulaar speaking on the air. With that in mind, this time around my nervousness revolved around being a good hostess to my guests. Having been on the receiving end of it quite a bit, I know that hospitality is important to Senegalese people, but I wasn’t quite sure what was expected of me in this particular situation, except I was reasonably certain it would involve orange soda.
Orange soda is the Senegalese equivalent of champagne- crucial at weddings and in honor of esteemed guests. I’m not too sure how this tradition evolved, though it does seem more appropriate for the predominantly Islamic Senegalese- non-alcoholic and much cheaper. And I have to say that on a 115 degree day, given the choice between champagne and a cold orange soda, I would go for orange soda every time. So with my bottle of orange soda in tow, I set out the morning of the broadcast to collect my guests. I was especially eager to make a good impression because it turned out to be much harder to convince people to be on our show than I thought it would be.
The nurse who heads the health post seemed willing enough, but he’s from a different part of the country and only speaks French and Wolof, so we would need another person to translate into Pulaar for him. At first I thought our pharmacist would do it- he’s outgoing and personable, and I thought he would get a kick out of being a guest on a radio show. But the night before night before the show I stopped by to confirm that everything was set, and the pharmacist blythely informed me that he had a meeting scheduled in Matam the next day, which of course he hadn’t mentioned any of the six times previously I’d asked him. I was a bit flummoxed, but the nurse told me he wanted Marie Sow, our head mid-wife, to do it anyway. Naturally, he hadn’t mentioned this plan to Marie.
I had mentioned it to her when I’d first started pitching the idea, but she’d seemed rather lukewarm about the whole thing, so I hadn’t pushed it. Now I had to go to her and essentially beg her to come at the last minute. She wasn’t wild about the idea (apparently Pulaars aren’t immune to the malady of stage fright, either). Eventually she agreed, but only, as she said with a sigh, because I am her daughter-in-law.
Before any of you start making hasty assumptions about what exactly I’ve been up to since coming to Senegal, I should probably explain that this comment was the result of a long-standing joke between the two of us, stemming from her trying to convince me to marry her twenty-five year old son and take him to America and me attempting to deflect the proposition by saying I’d rather marry her other son, a gap-toothed charmer by the name of Ablaye, but that I’d probably better wait a few years as he's only fifteen. She found this hilarious, and started greeting me by saying ‘My daughter-in-law!’ every time she saw me from that point on. I respond by saying, ‘My mother-in-law!’ every time I see her (both are the same word in Pulaar). Anyway, seeing as it ended up security a crucial part of our show, I’ve never been more grateful that I’d promised myself to a fifteen year old. Thank goodness for family connections.
The second show consisted of an interview with our two guest stars designed to inform people of the importance of prenatal consultations and two skits with the same aim. Having local language speakers relieve the burden of producing our own imperfect Pulaar really made the time fly, and everyone seemed happy with how the show went, especially after I treated our guest stars to a nice lunch as a thank you.
The funniest about all of this was the reaction we’ve been getting to the show. After the first show, we were a bit giddy and relieved that we’d gotten through the first performance generally unscathed, but we were completely unprepared for random people to stop us on the street and tell us they liked our program. I guess it wasn’t too much of a stretch for people seeing four white people together coming from the general direction of the radio show, but the following week I was with Marie on the way back, and a woman in the car with us turned around and asked if we were the ones she’d heard on the radio a couple of hours before. I don’t know how Marie felt about it, but I for one found it somewhat disconcerting to be a recognizable radio personality all of a sudden. Then when I got back to my village one of my neighbors told me a friend of his in Diandiolly (a small town 3 kilometers from my town) told him she heard me on the radio station. I was surprised how many people tuned in- of course it probably helps that there are only three stations to choose from, but still.
What I found even more surprising was how enthusiastic people were about the show. I mean, there is the novelty of four white people presenting in Pulaar, but you can only make prenatal consultations so exciting. Part of me still can’t believe this whole radio scheme has actually come together. But overall, people said they really enjoyed the show, and more importantly, understood our Pulaar. I for one was extremely grateful for this assurance (I don’t care if people are lying to my face, as long as they are saying nice things).
I’ve had a lot of unexpected experiences in Peace Corps, but I have to say, becoming a radio celebrity pretty much takes the cake.
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