I left my little blue wallet with my two credit cards, half of my monthly stipend, a hundred dollar travelers check that my visiting mom had posed there, my emergency contact information, and the scribbled passwords for both of my credit cards in a local boutique when I went to buy a little sack of yogurt for fukki derem (twenty five cents). I think I was enjoying my little sack of yogurt (Senegal’s version of go-gurt only so much better)a bit too much because I thought not of my little blue wallet.

I walked home and starting eating lunch, the national dish of the ceebu jeen. I was angling myself around the bowl to have better leverage with the manioke when I got a text message from my group leader Anta two hours away in Dakar “You left your wallet at the boutique when you were buying lait caille (yogurt)”it read. My breath came in funny half circles and I stood up abruptly. Once I realized that I was helpless to answer the two questions pounding through my head (How could I be so stupid and how did she see that?) I was knocking on the hollow door of the boutique.

The door echoed loudly and futilely I thought, until I noticed the man approaching me on my side of the door. He told me that his friend the shopkeeper was currently eating lunch and brought me to talk to him through the iron corrugated window. I was told to wait a few minutes and when I turned to thank the complete stranger who had made helping me his first priority, he offered me this simple maxim, “Nous sommes ensemble” (“We are together”). The shopkeeper who had called Anta after looking at my emergency contact information, arrived a couple of minutes later with my wallet. It was he who insisted that I comb carefully through my wallet, making sure everything was there. It was.

I was touched by the encounter and by that stranger’s plain “nous sommes ensemble”–the way his benevolence of spirit blinded him to my strawberry blond hair, and the pinky sunburn across the bridge of my nose. He only saw a fellow human.

Since then, I have heard “nous sommes ensemble” many more times, both in French and in wolof. Most days it rings true; my friendly clementine vendor likes to give me an extra little “bebe” (“baby”) as I call them, repeating simply, “cadeau” (“gift”). I get dinner invitations waiting for the bus, free sugared peanut butter patties from the peanut vendor who probably makes one dollar on a good day but who presses me to take the gift, “suma xarhit la” (“my friend”). It is in this country of “vivre ensemble” (“live together”) where my host sisters come running to find me where I sit journaling in the courtyard, to give me a third of their suckie candy, where the mother of two sitting next to me on the bus offers me an orange.

Senegal has so much to offer, but it also asks for much in return. When I walk the streets to work each day it is not uncommon to hear “dox ma sa xahlis, sa chemise, sa sow,”(“give me your money, your shirt, your yogurt”). I have had a little boy even go so far as to grab my wrist to take my snack. I have had friends ask for gifts from me in an abrupt, abrasive, way that makes me very uncomfortable.

One day, I asked my host sister to watch my camera for a minute and suddenly it was gone. At first we thought it was lost but then it came to seem more likely that it was stolen.

I was feeling betrayed by this small community that I have come to love when my host sister starting searching the streets with me. I went back to search the school and everyone instantly mobilized for me. Diarra, my co worker, called another teacher to ask her to check her sac and everyone was asking me to retrace my steps. The teacher I work with, Mame Diouma, came back to school halfway through eating lunch in order to help me look and the school guardian came to my house to make sure there was no potential that my younger sister had misplaced it or took it as a joke. The three of them, the guardian, Mame Diouma and my sister, not only put up with double and triple checking the road, it was them who took me to a local marabout, a religious leader, believed to have both medicinal and augural powers. Afterwards, the director of the school insisted that Mame Diouma take me to the local police station to file a complaint. I arrived there with my maid Mariama and my coworker Mame Diouma. Ten minutes later my flustered host mom Madeline appeared. Five minutes after that the school director school arrived and ten minutes later Diarra arrived and it was the six of us filing a single complaint for a stolen gray Kodak easy share camera.

Originally, I was sick to my stomach thinking of the moments I had captured and now lost on that camera but also the moments and people and nooks here that I would not be able to capture and port back to America with me. But now, beholding the molted six of us, a full spectrum of colors and ages and sizes, this upsetting and tumultuous encounter: the stealing of my camera, had become another gift of overflowing Senegalese generosity. They given me their Tuesday, clicked their tongues in angry disapproval, and cared so much more than I ever would have asked of them–another moment in itself worth capturing.

I am home! And I have a lot of stories to tell.

If you (or your child, student, friend, etc.) are interested in a Global Citizen Year, you might want to watch the video below, a sort of teaser-trailer for my Senegal experience.

Enjoy!

She’s probably going to be ecstatic.

I really couldn’t have imagined the scale Kids with Cameras would grow to–how much energy I would put into it, how incredible the photos would be, how proud the kids would be to share their work, how appreciative the parents would become. Truthfully, Kids with Cameras is what kept me going the last two months in Ecuador.

I anticipated the educational standards I was accustomed to in the States–letters get sent home with parents, parents send their kids to and support educational events (field trip money, getting to school on time, parent-teacher conferences–you get the picture). Despite the multiple letters I wrote, the calls to families who have phones, and the excitement the kids had for the project, I spent many afternoons trekking through Ibarra’s rainy streets hunting down my students–”Looking for Colombians, Part Two,” if you will.

The thing about the refugees I work with is that all the families know each other. There are three distinct neighborhoods they live in–all of them are on my walk to work. A typical afternoon spent searching looks something like this:

Lady Sinistera’s papi, Jose, doesn’t have a cell phone, and as many times as I reminded his new wife about the meetings when she came to pick up Lady’s brothers, Lady’s new mama is a 21 year old, VERY pregnant woman taking care of a ten year old girl and two three year old boys. I was on my own. So I walked down to the barber shop where the husband of Lady’s mama’s best friend works. He wasn’t there, but a friend sent me to the auto repair shop a few blocks down. He was there and called his wife, but she hadn’t seen any of the the Sinisteria family. She said that Jose was probably at work though–so I hopped on the Aduana Caranqui bus to the Merced. No luck. Usually he sells DVDs by the hotel in front of Parque de la Merced, but wasn’t there. However, the hotel next to the stand said that I could leave a letter for him with the woman in the internet cafe next door. Apparently, Jose was in a baking class for a future job at a panaderia (bread store). But I left the letter with the neighbor and sure enough, Lady was at the next meeting.

The reality of these kids’ lives is that their parents often work two or more jobs. Some spend their afternoons caring for younger siblings, cooking lunch, and attempting to complete homework assignments single handedley. When the parents are that caught up with simply surviving, their primary concern isn’t necessarily getting their children to Pastoral. But when they did show up, it was amazing.

Yes, the kids took incredible photos, as I’m sure you can tell. They had a fun after school activity. But what mattered to me the most were the days they’d show up at the office because they “thought they had a workshop.” When I saw the same handful was showing up at the same time everyday, I realized that the reality was that they just wanted to hang out. Most don’t have a safe space–their houses are stressful, and the xenophobia they face on the daily is unimaginable. So, to come into the Pastoral office and play with my camera and ipod, listen to Daddy Yankee, steal from the prize bag, and ask advice about dealing with their ten-year-old girlfriends, was an amazing outlet. Knowing they had someone to turn to, and a place to unwind and feel secure, was the best part about the experience.

But after all the lessons and hunting and brilliant photos, we decided to do something more. These kids were so proud of what they were doing, and I was proud of them. We decided to have a presentation of sorts–half presentation and half celebration. On my last Monday in Ecuador, after decorating picture frames and invitations and practicing, practicing, practicing, every student chose three photos to present to the Pastoral Migratoria team and their families. Several also gave mini speeches about how the program worked and what the experience was like for them. I bought a cake for them that said “Felicidades Chicos con Cameras!” (Congratulations Kids with Cameras!) and we had a little fiesta to commend their hard work.

I hardly slept Sunday night because I kept waking up with bad dreams about the presentation. Someone once told me the more nervous we are for something, the more we respect it. I must have had a lot of respect for these kids. But I called all the families and it was confirmed everyone would be there.

It was truly magic. The kids were vibrant and articulate. Parents and students came with little gifts for me–a home made Colombian sweet, a tiny beaded bracelet, a painting of Darwin and me on a beach in Ecuador (my favorite gift by far). One mother, Anna Milena, cried through the entire presentation. Afterward she told me that her son, Sebastian, actually changed during the past month. I met Sebastian’s mom about ten days after they fled from Colombia. His day with the camera was the day they moved from a hotel into their apartment. Anna Milena told me that Sebastian became animated during this program–he had something to look forward to and something he talked about. She said it helped lift him out of the depression he fell into after immigrating.

The Montoyas’ dad said that he watched his four children in the program bond over the project–taking “artistic” photos and posing for each other, exploring Ibarra as they documented their lives. He and his wife work from dawn until dark and the kids have to cook for themselves and do their own homework, so he was so appreciative that they had some place to go after school, someone who cared about them and looked out for them.

I didn’t realize what a camera could unleash. I thought I’d give kids cameras and get some sweet pictures, maybe empowering a few along the way. In reality, the cameras helped families bond, emboldened every student, created a safe, calm space in chaotic, unstable lives, introduced me to Colombians I never would have met if I didn’t have to trek all over Ibarra, and helped me to bond across several cultures and languages, learning lessons I never anticipated from the most unlikely of people.

When you give a kid a camera….well, you complete the sentence.

1) Bottle of shampoo that I brought with me and made last for 7 months, economizing by occasionally tilling my hair into neat corn rows and forgoing shampooing.

1) Thin beach towel that has traveled with me from Dakar to Saint Louis to Mbour, from cool showers, to colder showers, to beautiful beaches. We took trips to the shower together at least once a day during the sticky-air, rainy season but to the horror of my host mother, only every other day during the winter. (One day during the winter she noted that I had showered two days in a row and said, “Bravo, Tess, tu viens de venir Senegalese” (“Bravo, Tess. You are starting to become Senegalese.”)

3) Senegalese host sisters Marzia, (eleven) Marie-Jeanne, (ten) Aline (two) who, somewhere along the way, became just sisters. Marzia loves to tell me “nop ii!” (“silence/shut up”); last week Aline peed on my bed and, often, when I am resting, fatigued or with a headache, Marzia and Marie-Jeanne will sneak into my room, kiss me lightly on the forehead and say “Bonne nuit” (“goodnight”).

1) Time a week I talk with my family back home, coping with connections across the Atlantic that sound as if we really are talking underwater. I struggle not just to hear their morphed and echoing voices but to make this world real to them.

6) Names that I respond to: Tess (my host family and close friends), Tess-Tess (my host Dad, Benoitte), Tata Therese (my preschool kids), Tezue, (my friend Koumba ), Tereza (some “tetu”, or headstrong, preschool kids), Mame Teneg (my Serrer name), “LANGAN” (my host mom, Madeline), and Pess (some misinformed kids on the street)

6) Names that I try not to respond to when walking down the street: ,”eeeh toubab ehh! Fetchal Ussa” (“Hey, white person, Eh! Dance the [Senegalese equivalent of The Single Ladies Dance]! ); “Madam, Mademoiselle” (I respond, “Man goor la” .“I’m a boy”, which usually evinces laughter or silence); le plus belle (“the prettiest”). I furrow my brow and say, “Ana le plus belle be? ”Where is the prettiest?”; and the dreaded, unspeakable, growl-eliciting, princess ( I respond,“Je suis pas une princess de” “I am NOT a princess ”).

2) Times I have had my hair braided, fretfully pulled into a near-bald, spikey state. Despite my close resemblance to an albino lizard, Senegalese people love the fact that I have braided my hair like them. Strangers on the street stop me, ask me to tip my head down so they can better inspect and tell me that it is “tres belle”(“very beautiful”).

2) Times I have been asked if I am an American. Usually I am asked if I am Italian or Belgian, which I prefer in great part because if I am discovered as an American jokes about hamburgers often follow.

3) Roosters who reside in my courtyard and have not yet been programmed to crow only in the morning. They are still testing out their cock-a-doodle-dooing (here in Senegal roosters say cock-a-lee-koo) day and night like overzealous guards.

5) Fruit trees in the family courtyard: one mango, one papaya, one green Senegalese mandarin, and two cidem, a brown Senegalese fruit the size of a small cherry with a hard outer casing and a fluffy fruit within. The consistency used to repel me but now I love cidem so much that I relentlessly scour the tree for the fruit, which is embedded deep between layers of thorns.

4) Wedding invitations I have received, from longtime friends and family members but also from one woman on the very same day that I met her.

9) Dismembered mosquito carcasses currently clinging to my screen door like omens of the potential terror within. Sometimes it is hard to separate my life from the constant war I am waging against the mosquitoes of Senegal. My sisters and I play a game where we run around my room clapping our hands wildly to catch the creatures who move, nonplussed, at the last minute. My friend Dnieaba from the orphanage makes me laugh, examining my mountainous formations and telling me that she will eat any mosquito who dares bite me.

207) Number of children at the orphanage here in Mbour (where only about three are adopted each year). Most of the infants have only lost a mother and are placed in the orphanage temporarily to benefit from the medical access and free formula, which is expensive here in Senegal. Then there are the older children, who range up to age eleven, most of whom suffer from medical problems and most of whom should also be returned to their families. But the orphanage is only nine years old and often my questions about future planning are met with puzzled stares. The psychologist there told me that he thinks the biggest problem at the orphanage is its rapid expansion, perhaps at the expense of quality.

5) Number of times children on the street have touched me unprovoked, grabbed my hand to detain me, pulled my hair, or pushed me from behind when I was seated in a chariot. These encounters often deeply unsettle me because I am aware of the different standards of decency that apply to me and of an idea, implanted in a child’s head, telling him that I am not human in the same way he is. The children are aware that their actions would be disrespectful and violating if done to someone of their own color, so does that mean that I do not feel pain or emotions in the same way because I am a toubab (“white person”)?

4) Children from the orphanage whom I want to take home with me. The youngest is baby Fatou Diallo, followed by an almost perambulatory eight-month-old Adama Toure with his little mop-like fro and his brand-new laugh. Then there’s Sokna Fall Dieng, a beautiful one and a half-year old with attachment problems (she slaps at me and pulls my hair jealously if I hold another baby) and finally Cher, a nine-year old with an amputated leg. I have only known him for two months and sometimes I am surprised at how much he has affected me with his sunshine.

Adama Toure

2) Babies in the orphanage’s neonatal section who died this year, one from diarrhea and one from causes unknown. The vacated crib of Fatou Faye was quickly supporting a new squirming infant and I seemed to be the only one asking questions. How exactly did they die? I have gotten accustomed to the fatalistic Senegalese reaction to premature death. When someone tells me that their father has died and I inquire how, a long pause follows as they search for the apparently irrelevant information. “He is dead. What does it matter how?” the pregnant pause seems to say.

Uncountables:

- Times that, despite the resistance of my mood, lack of moves and elasticity, or misplaced pride, the Senegalese have gotten me to spontaneously dance. (As Ouleye, a friend from the orphanage explained to me “We dance when we are tired”).

- Times that I have been told that I am crazy or lazy or talk too much or am never sure or that I do not understand any language–a manifestation of the Senegalese tough love brand of encouragement.

- Number of gerrete chafe (bags of fresh roasted peanuts), slices of xal (melon) and crème glace (plastic bags of frozen fruit juice sugar rushes that are liquid heaven for me), and clementines I have consumed here.

- Times, especially during electricity outages or on the beach, that I have craned my neck upward to look at the stars that are swallowed up in New Jersey by light pollution and by the purported busyness of our important lives.

Over the past months, I’ve occasionally jotted down little haikus in my journal. Perhaps you’ll get a different perspective on my life in Senegal from these mental musings.

I have drunk friendship,
Brown-olive, thick with sweetness,
From a glass teacup
————————————————–
Sneezing and smiles:
The same in every language.
Ah-choo! Ah-choo! Eeeee!
————————————————–
Beans make sounds of rain
Tumbling into tin cans;
One kilo, cent franc.
————————————————–
Red coals burn, ash rimmed,
Spilling smoke in smudged curls
Fighting mosquitoes
————————————————–
Prayer call on Fridays
White sun heat of two o’clock
Devoted drift by
————————————————–
Sale! Phone cards! Good deal!
Cheap street corner calls for help
Still aren’t being heard.
————————————————–
No running water
Cash for new TV, cell phone
What’s development?
————————————————–
Here I walk slowly
Feet sinking in orange sand
On Africa time
————————————————–
Stooped to concrete gods
Lets stream hot urine—ah!
Street public restrooms
————————————————–
Flies make the wall black
Sipping at my eye juices
Cannot slap a one
————————————————–
Water splash, high chirp
A bat lives in my shower
We all live somewhere
————————————————–
I can’t speak their talk
So I’ve eaten words instead
If not out, in works
————————————————–
Twilight comes coolness
Flies flesh out to mosquitoes
Bird trills now crickets
————————————————–
Fill, fill, fill me
I want to live until it hurts
And I am happy