Settling in in Louga

 
 Where's the Beef? 

Louga is kind of like Fort Worth, Texas, but without the charm. (Being facetious here.) Louga is a cattle town. It northern Senegal's main transfer station for beef on the hoof. I often see herds of longhorns being driven down the road. (Not driven in a bus or truck, but driven as in a cowboy cow drive.) I'm not sure where they are going, but man, there sure are a lot of open-air beef butchers in the market.

So I have been here one month and I have apparently seen the “cool season" come and go. It was really quite comfortable here for a few weeks, but now, even though the early mornings are cool, the afternoons are heating up into the high 90s again. When I go out it feels like the sun is a few million miles closer than it is in New England. Maybe it actually is. I don’t know.

Louga is all about the markets. There are several of them. Three of them intermingle in the middle of town and snake out through sandy side streets. Most of of the markets are out in the open air, but there are some claustrophobic covered areas with narrow dark passageways. There’s a lot of stuff in these markets, but, truth be told, it’s pretty much the same stuff over and over again. There are the standard vegetables: carrots, lettuce, eggplant, bitter tomatoes. For the life of me I can’t understand why people grow, and how people sell, the latter. It tastes terrible and I don’t think anybody really likes it. But check your ceebujen bowl at lunchtime and odds are it will be in there.

Then there’s the used clothing, piled in heaps on the ground with American company logos or insignias from U.S. parks or towns. I imagine this stuff comes straight from those clothing collection boxes you find at Wal-Mart or behind the gas station.

There is new clothing too, like outfits representing all the Premier League football clubs. All of it made in China, I’m sure. If you want cool clothing here, you have to go to a tailor and get it made.

What do I do for fun here? Well, I bought a basketball. (And I am proud that I bargained the price down from 11 mille to 7.) I take it to the old stadium down my street, where I shoot hoops with random kids who happen to be around.

When I told the girls in my family that I had bought a basketball, they got all excited, so I made a date to play ball with them on Sunday. I brought the ball over to the compound at lunchtime and they tossed it around and dribbled between their legs and had a blast.

By the end of our three hour lunch, I was feeling beat and all of the kids had disappeared, so I took my ball and left for home. Ten minutes later I heard pounding on my front door and little voices calling “Cheikh! Cheikh!” It was the girls of course. (And one boy, Papi) The were all dressed in their clean basketball shorts and jerseys and ready to rock the court.

So we walked down the sandy road to the court with Coumba and Papi spontaneously taking me by the hand along the way. Once there we were engulfed in dribbling, passing, shooting, running chaos, with a couple of the girls showing real skills. Then, suddenly with no warning, they were done and we went back to my apartment where I gave them a pack of crackers and sent them on their way.

They were all gone for awhile, presumably for the Gamou, and I missed them. But with most of my family gone I found myself spending less time at the compound, and more at home or around town. I rode my bike out to the post office today to see if, by chance, there were any Christmas presents waiting for me there. But it was closed! Why? The day after Gamou and the day before Christmas? No idea. On the way back I stopped at the bus station to get an idea of how much it would cost to take my bike with me on a sept-place to Saint-Louis. Five mille, the guy said. I laughed and offered him two. He came back at three. If I can get him to two next time I go to Saint-Louis I will be happy.

Then I went the market where I tried to get some plastic lawn chairs for less that four mille each without success. But while wandering around I spontaneously decided to take a chance on some beef at one of the fresh-air butchers. I got a nice hunk of good looking meat for a few bucks and took it home for chili.

Eight hours later, I am still alive. The chili was good, but the beef was tough.

Then it was Christmas Day. Christmas in Senegal doesn’t feel like Christmas at all so I decided to not try to make it feel like Christmas. Just another day off. I had my usual breakfast of hard boiled eggs on a baguette from the sandwich lady on the corner. Then I went off to the Catholic church. It was a long service, but man the choir was great! Then I was off to lunch with my family. When I told my Dad that I was going home to call my family in the states, he sweetly asked me to wish them joyeux noel. Nice.

It’s an odd day here. There’s been a thick cloud cover all day and it feels unusually humid. Usually it’s sunny and dry.  


The content of this blog do not reflect the thoughts, philosophy or beliefs of the U.S. Peace Corps. The opinions are those of the author alone.

My New Home, Hot Home

Wednesday, November 11

From the day I arrived in Senegal, this was what I had been waiting for, it was postind day for myself and the other 60 trainees in my stage.  It was the day our Peace Corp placement site would be revealed. It was when we would learn where we would be spending the next two years. I had a pretty good idea of where I wanted to be--in Saint-Louis on the northeastern coast of Senegal. A French colonial city, it had everything I wanted. And I was feeling optimistic as I milled around the basketball court with the 60 other trainees.

Here’s the way the placement reveal works. We all meet on the basketball court, which has a map of Senegal painted on it. Then, once everyone is there, we are each blindfolded and each of us, at the same time, is taken by the hand and let to the location on the map of our posting. Not directly of course; the hand holder pulled me around the map and spun me around a few times, but I never lost my sense of direction and I knew that eventually we were heading back toward the west coast, the northern west coast. And that’s where Saint-Louis is. So my hopes were high when I was stopped in place, facing eastward on the map. I knew I was near Saint Louis. But then I suddenly heard two trainees behind me, that is, closer to the coast. And I knew there weren’t more than two openings there. Sure enough, when the time came for us to take off our blindfolds I was standing right on top of a city named Louga. Close, but no cigar. Louga? I knew nothing about it.

Of course I did some research as soon as I could. The city is about 100k from Saint Louis and 60k due east of the coast. You won’t find much about Louga on Wikipedia, or anywhere online for that matter. It is a fairly new city of 250,000 resident on the edge of the Sahel desert.

And then I went there. The next day. We all spread out to visit our sites. Some had to endure a 14 hour bus ride to reach theirs. Mine, fortunately was only about two hours to the north of Theis. The Peace Corps car dropped me at the bus station in Louga where my ancienne (predecessor) was waiting. Ashlee and I grabbed a cab and headed into the city and her (soon to be my) place. Unlike most PCVs, I won’t be living with a family; I will have my own studio apartment, complete with a single gas burner and mini- fridge. (I am already dreaming of having a supply of cold water!) It's the kind of place you'd pay $2,000 a month rent for in the South Bronx. The bathroom has a decent shower and a western toilet. (Good thing because the squat toilets are killing my knees.) I also will have access to the roof.

Louga is a low, sprawling city with sand on the streets. There doesn’t seem to a building over two stories high. At its heart are three huge outdoor markets with vegetables and fish, fruit and meat, electronics, back packs, used clothing, mattresses—anything you could want, though none of it seems to be of very high quality.  We went to one to buy me a gym bag, and the zippers broke almost immediately.

But before that we went to lunch at my new family’s compound. There must have been 20 people there and i’m sure it will take me awhile to figure out all the relationships in the extended family. But they were all very welcoming and accepting of my pitiful Wolof.

I also got to meet some of the major agricultural players in town and am looking forward to getting back to learn from them.

Oh, almost forgot, while I was in Louga I got a haircut. I just picked the closest of may many barber shops. The barber turned out to be a young guy with a bit of English, but Ashlee was there too to help out with the Wolof. He was eager to please but couldn't quite figure out what to do with my long straight hair. He had obviously never cut a toubaab's hair before. Those trusty clippers of his just ' work, at least not until the gave me a once over with scissors. Eventually he figured it out--and insisted on trimming my beard too. It all turned out fine. A good haircut for 500 CFAs. That's one dollar if you're counting.

The content of this blog do not reflect the thoughts, philosophy or beliefs of the U.S. Peace Corps. The opinions are those of the author alone.