These are observations that - taken individually - would never fill up an entire blog entry, but that certainly deserve a space. In many instances, a picture would have been worth a thousand words, but walking around all the time with a camera would make me look like a tourist...
* Freedom is walking to work without a wallet, keys or a cell phone in your pocket.
* The divide between rich and poor was never more apparent than the day I saw a deep blue, new Bentley Continental GT (MSRP: $182,800 or $207,700 nicely equipped) with the most luxurious, buff colored leather interior parked at a bakery directly next to a horse drawn wagon. The horse had a roan exterior.
* I think McDonald's hasn't opened a restaurant here because the Senegalese like their hamburgers cooked so well done that the "Quarter Pounder" would end up looking like the "Quarter Ouncer."
* Buildings here are concrete. I watched workers constructing the third floor of a building wherein 5 guys at ground level rhythmically shoveled sand up to 4 guys on a scaffold, who in turn kept beat and shoveled the same sand up to 3 guys on the 2nd floor, who in turn shoveled the sand toward several other workers who mixed the concrete using a manual machine. I watched in amazement for several minutes, silently counting four seconds between shovels, and the workers never once lost beat although not one of them said a thing.
* African girls have bigger boobs
* Do you remember the last time you saw a child sitting on their parent's lap driving a car? Do you remember how big the smile was on that child's face? It's the parent's responsibility, so screw the National Transportation Safety Bureau. If the parent gets in a wreck and hurts their child... well, here, they'll probably just have two more children. And get off your mighty pedestal: Malaria kills more children in Senegal simply because they don't have access to treatment than any form of parental irresponsibility.
* Where do stray dogs sleep at night?
* I have to cross one busy street to get from my residence to my place of work, but there is no crosswalk. In fact, the rules of the road here are, "Biggest wins." So, I stand on the side of the road and wait to cross the street. But, you'll remember that I look a bit different than the average person in Senegal. So, every taxicab that sees me must think I'm wearing a sign that says, "Early Retirement: White Guy Needs Ride Back to United States and Wants to Take a Taxi To Get There" and stops abruptly in front of me. This, of course, impedes my progress across the street by up to five minutes per day.
* The official unemployment rate in Senegal is 49%
* I frequently run down a sidewalk that is frequently occupied by a very old woman and a very young child. The old woman has lines all across her face that speak to experience, hardship and an ability to survive. The young child is preschool age, dirty and better behaved than my children were at that age. The lady has a parasol to protect her and the child from the sun and they sit on a mat. I wonder who they are, why they picked that place on the sidewalk, how long do they stay there and what they do to pass the time. But, I don't speak Wolof and I'll probably never find out. They have never asked me for money, but on my last week here I'm know where I'm going to leave all my spare change.
* We're directly on the west coast facing the Atlantic but the sunsets in Senegal are nowhere near as attractive as California, Hawaii or even Maine.
* I withdrew 50,000 CFA (about $100) from the ATM machine to attend a charity dinner with a friend. Walking away from the ATM, I realized that I had two week's wages of the average employee and I was going to spend it on one meal for two. A moment later, I realized that if I divided up the $100 amongst three guards, two housekeepers, three groundskeepers, a cook and two maintenance staff... that the charity needed the proceeds even more. One person may be able to help change the world, but not even Bill Gates and Warren Buffet can just hand money to people and make everyone better off. By strategically raising funds for organizations that can help change the infrastructure (teach a man to fish vs. give a man a fish), it might not take as much money as people think.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Is There a Doctor in the House?
So-called health care experts often point to developing nations and say, "See? Even (insert povery stricken country here) provides (insert random medical treatment here) to its poorest citizens while the United States spends its money on advertising, bloated administrative salaries and Viagra."
The so-called health care experts often ignore the actual, day-to-day medical care systems and whether or not features of these systems might be adopted in the U.S. Dakar is fortunate in some respects. As an urban center, the best care facilities in the country are located here, health insurance is available here and most of the medical professionals in the country live here. But to truly get a flavor of Dakar health care, I thought I might share stories from three different health care incidents.
One of my students complained, "The doctor didn't show up yesterday." After further inquiry, I learned that in Senegal, you dial a number and a fully equipped vehicle and trained professional arrives - AT YOUR HOME OR OFFICE - to treat you.
http://www.sosmedecinsenegal.org/presentation_eng.html
If it is an emergency, they will transport you to a health care facility. I need to do a bit more research on this, but from what I understand the doctors affiliated with this practice are essentially moonlighting! Doctors earn relatively little compared to their U.S. counterparts when paid for their government work, so to earn additional money they need to be entrepreneurial. Entrepreneurial does not mean, "figure out ways to bilk the insurance companies", so score points for Senegal's health care system for its ability to provide government-sponsored care to the poor while allowing its medical experts the ability to earn additional money using market-based techniques.
How is the quality of health care? The next anecdote is from personal experience (and BEFORE I learned about the above SOS home health care visits). I'll save the gory details, but I was severely dehydrated and absolutely could not drink enough fluids to replace what I was losing; I was unable to pinch even a bit of skin on my arm. I rarely use the U.S. health care system, so to ask to see a doctor in Senegal was a big leap of faith for me. I desperately needed an I.V. to get some fluids in my system and was willing to take a chance...
As a member of the upper crust here in Senegal, my driver took me to a very nicely appointed clinic - complete with tropical fish tank - on a Sunday morning. After providing my health insurance card, I was told the total fee was $60 of which I was responsible for 20% with my co-pay. I waited in a nicely appointed patient room and a guy entered about twenty minutes later with a large briefcase filled with medical stuff. He was not "African", unless it was Algeria or some other area where the Whitest Guy in West Africa might even be able to camoflage himself. In fact, he kind of looked Mexican. He never introduced himself and could have been the janitor for all I knew (with apologies due to all Mexican janitors who may have completed medical school).
He listened to me recite my symptoms and my request. I thought about trying to explain myself in French, but with my accent and under-achievements in mastering this tribal language, I was afraid my version of "I do not feel well" might somehow be translated as "I have swallowed an entire goat."
The guy (who might have been a doctor) performed a couple of routine tests on me. By routine, I mean he pressed my stomach with his hands, took my blood pressure, listened to my pulse and used a stethoscope to check my breathing.
Then, he pulled out a notepad and wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic, pain medicine and the prescription strength equivalent of Imodium. He never drew any blood, so there was no way he could have known if I had a bacterial or viral disease. When I said again that my reason for coming was because I was severely dehydrated and asked again about getting a fluid IV, he looked at me reassuringly and responded, "You should drink some water." So, there you have it: $60 for expert medical advice to drink some water. My six year old daughter performs a similar routine on me with her doctor kit back home, but doesn't charge me $60.
I left the clinic to get my prescription filled and went back to sprawl out on a couch completely unsatisfied with the health care experience. That's when one of my colleagues/housemates entered. He, too, was not feeling well. The difference is that he went directly to the pharmacy.
He explained his symptoms to the pharmacist and asked for an antibiotic and a pain reliever. The pharmacist asked if he had a prescription. He, in turn, asked the pharmacist for a notepad and wrote down, "Antibiotics and pain reliever" and signed it "Dr. Haider." Now, in all fairness, my colleague has an earned doctoral degree. In mathematics.
The pharmacist looked at the fresh prescription signed by the good doctor and dispensed one box of antibiotics and a pain reliever...
The so-called health care experts often ignore the actual, day-to-day medical care systems and whether or not features of these systems might be adopted in the U.S. Dakar is fortunate in some respects. As an urban center, the best care facilities in the country are located here, health insurance is available here and most of the medical professionals in the country live here. But to truly get a flavor of Dakar health care, I thought I might share stories from three different health care incidents.
One of my students complained, "The doctor didn't show up yesterday." After further inquiry, I learned that in Senegal, you dial a number and a fully equipped vehicle and trained professional arrives - AT YOUR HOME OR OFFICE - to treat you.
http://www.sosmedecinsenegal.org/presentation_eng.html
If it is an emergency, they will transport you to a health care facility. I need to do a bit more research on this, but from what I understand the doctors affiliated with this practice are essentially moonlighting! Doctors earn relatively little compared to their U.S. counterparts when paid for their government work, so to earn additional money they need to be entrepreneurial. Entrepreneurial does not mean, "figure out ways to bilk the insurance companies", so score points for Senegal's health care system for its ability to provide government-sponsored care to the poor while allowing its medical experts the ability to earn additional money using market-based techniques.
How is the quality of health care? The next anecdote is from personal experience (and BEFORE I learned about the above SOS home health care visits). I'll save the gory details, but I was severely dehydrated and absolutely could not drink enough fluids to replace what I was losing; I was unable to pinch even a bit of skin on my arm. I rarely use the U.S. health care system, so to ask to see a doctor in Senegal was a big leap of faith for me. I desperately needed an I.V. to get some fluids in my system and was willing to take a chance...
As a member of the upper crust here in Senegal, my driver took me to a very nicely appointed clinic - complete with tropical fish tank - on a Sunday morning. After providing my health insurance card, I was told the total fee was $60 of which I was responsible for 20% with my co-pay. I waited in a nicely appointed patient room and a guy entered about twenty minutes later with a large briefcase filled with medical stuff. He was not "African", unless it was Algeria or some other area where the Whitest Guy in West Africa might even be able to camoflage himself. In fact, he kind of looked Mexican. He never introduced himself and could have been the janitor for all I knew (with apologies due to all Mexican janitors who may have completed medical school).
He listened to me recite my symptoms and my request. I thought about trying to explain myself in French, but with my accent and under-achievements in mastering this tribal language, I was afraid my version of "I do not feel well" might somehow be translated as "I have swallowed an entire goat."
The guy (who might have been a doctor) performed a couple of routine tests on me. By routine, I mean he pressed my stomach with his hands, took my blood pressure, listened to my pulse and used a stethoscope to check my breathing.
Then, he pulled out a notepad and wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic, pain medicine and the prescription strength equivalent of Imodium. He never drew any blood, so there was no way he could have known if I had a bacterial or viral disease. When I said again that my reason for coming was because I was severely dehydrated and asked again about getting a fluid IV, he looked at me reassuringly and responded, "You should drink some water." So, there you have it: $60 for expert medical advice to drink some water. My six year old daughter performs a similar routine on me with her doctor kit back home, but doesn't charge me $60.
I left the clinic to get my prescription filled and went back to sprawl out on a couch completely unsatisfied with the health care experience. That's when one of my colleagues/housemates entered. He, too, was not feeling well. The difference is that he went directly to the pharmacy.
He explained his symptoms to the pharmacist and asked for an antibiotic and a pain reliever. The pharmacist asked if he had a prescription. He, in turn, asked the pharmacist for a notepad and wrote down, "Antibiotics and pain reliever" and signed it "Dr. Haider." Now, in all fairness, my colleague has an earned doctoral degree. In mathematics.
The pharmacist looked at the fresh prescription signed by the good doctor and dispensed one box of antibiotics and a pain reliever...
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Holiday Shopping at the Artisans' Market
I will return to America for three weeks for winter break and thought it would be a good idea to bring back some souvineirs. Being the male of the species, shopping for souvineirs has never been my strong suit. I tend to buy a dozen or so generic gifts and then distribute them amongst friends and family by letting them choose what items they like. When the gifts are gone, they're gone. Which is a nice way of saying you probably ought to make an effort to see me before I see you if you want any presents this year...
Senegal has several artisans' markets. The most famous of these is the Artisanal de Soumbedioune, conveniently located less than 3 miles from my home. I estimate there are over 100 vendors plying their trade at this market and the funny part is: they all sell the same stuff. And I mean the same stuff. The real artisans are tucked away in compartments, working diligently to turn out the look-alike handcrafted goods. The "artisans" working the market stalls are absolute hucksters. Would you like a set of "See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil" monkeys? Every artisan stall has them. In three different sizes.
And when they see the Whitest Guy in West Africa enter their little village, the dollar signs are clearly visible in their eyes. The only way to recreate the shopping experience for you is to replay the actual sales pitches that I received from these vendors. The following is an amalgamation of verbatim lines used to lure me in...
"Bon jour. Ce va? Parlez Anglais? Where are you from? Etas Unis? Boston? I love Boston Celtics. So for you, Celtics Man, I give you good price. Today is special. For you: half price. On Everything. You see these?" (brings out a pair of wooden spoons). "How much you think? Two for 10,000 (about $20 US). That is good price (they are probably worth $1 each). Oh, that is too much? Don't worry. That is my opening price, then you bargain back. How much you have?"
I told him the truth. I am only there to look. I brought 2,000 CFA (about $4), enough to buy a Coca Cola (about 400 CFA) in case I get thirsty and maybe even a snack. I pulled the 2,000 out of my pocket to show him I was being honest.
"Okay, one for 2,000."
I shook my head no and smiled. As as I left the stall, I heard... "Okay, one for 1,500. You still buy a Coca Cola"... and I walked on to the next vendor.
"Come here. Just look. Just come take a look at my work. Just come inside," says the next vendor as he points to his eyes and forcefully grabs my arm to lead me into his marketplace stall. This can be a bit disconcerting to Americans, which the vendors are fully aware of. And the vendors are also fully aware that if you don't buy from them, you will buy from someone else. Inside the stalls is where the real bargaining occurs.
Meanwhile, the first vendor reappears as if out of nowhere. "1,000 for one"...
But, back to the second vendor. "You are first customer today. My father said, 'Never let first customer go without buying,' so I give you good price. You see these (as he points to some small wood animal sculptures), I make these. This is all my work. How much you think for these? 10,000 CFA for three"... As I try to leave, the vendor blocks the entry way to the stall. Once again, this can be disconcerting to tourists - downright intimidating, in fact - if you do not understand that you merely look the man in the eye, shake his hand and say, "Non, merci."
The third vendor was my favorite. He did not appear to be working in a stall, but was merely wandering the marketplace.
"Come here. You are nice man. These other men don't treat you well. I give you gift. It comes from my heart. There is no cost," and he proceeds to wrap a bracelet made with sea shells around my wrist. He explained that sea shells were once used as currency, so this was a highly treasured gift.
"You like my gift? Now you give me gift. How much money you have? You will not give me gift? Why? You do not like Senegalese people? You do not like black people? Come with me to my shop. I give you girlfriend."
I had to smile and chuckle at his approach, but still I nodded in the negative and thanked him for his time as I took off the bracelet to return his merchandise.
"You do not like Senegalese girls? You do not like black girls? Perhaps you would like a young boy?"
No!! No!! No!! I love Senegalese girls! I love black girls!
"Then, you come with me and I give you black, Senegalese girlfriend. Just come take a look at my work"...
Senegal has several artisans' markets. The most famous of these is the Artisanal de Soumbedioune, conveniently located less than 3 miles from my home. I estimate there are over 100 vendors plying their trade at this market and the funny part is: they all sell the same stuff. And I mean the same stuff. The real artisans are tucked away in compartments, working diligently to turn out the look-alike handcrafted goods. The "artisans" working the market stalls are absolute hucksters. Would you like a set of "See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil" monkeys? Every artisan stall has them. In three different sizes.
And when they see the Whitest Guy in West Africa enter their little village, the dollar signs are clearly visible in their eyes. The only way to recreate the shopping experience for you is to replay the actual sales pitches that I received from these vendors. The following is an amalgamation of verbatim lines used to lure me in...
"Bon jour. Ce va? Parlez Anglais? Where are you from? Etas Unis? Boston? I love Boston Celtics. So for you, Celtics Man, I give you good price. Today is special. For you: half price. On Everything. You see these?" (brings out a pair of wooden spoons). "How much you think? Two for 10,000 (about $20 US). That is good price (they are probably worth $1 each). Oh, that is too much? Don't worry. That is my opening price, then you bargain back. How much you have?"
I told him the truth. I am only there to look. I brought 2,000 CFA (about $4), enough to buy a Coca Cola (about 400 CFA) in case I get thirsty and maybe even a snack. I pulled the 2,000 out of my pocket to show him I was being honest.
"Okay, one for 2,000."
I shook my head no and smiled. As as I left the stall, I heard... "Okay, one for 1,500. You still buy a Coca Cola"... and I walked on to the next vendor.
"Come here. Just look. Just come take a look at my work. Just come inside," says the next vendor as he points to his eyes and forcefully grabs my arm to lead me into his marketplace stall. This can be a bit disconcerting to Americans, which the vendors are fully aware of. And the vendors are also fully aware that if you don't buy from them, you will buy from someone else. Inside the stalls is where the real bargaining occurs.
Meanwhile, the first vendor reappears as if out of nowhere. "1,000 for one"...
But, back to the second vendor. "You are first customer today. My father said, 'Never let first customer go without buying,' so I give you good price. You see these (as he points to some small wood animal sculptures), I make these. This is all my work. How much you think for these? 10,000 CFA for three"... As I try to leave, the vendor blocks the entry way to the stall. Once again, this can be disconcerting to tourists - downright intimidating, in fact - if you do not understand that you merely look the man in the eye, shake his hand and say, "Non, merci."
The third vendor was my favorite. He did not appear to be working in a stall, but was merely wandering the marketplace.
"Come here. You are nice man. These other men don't treat you well. I give you gift. It comes from my heart. There is no cost," and he proceeds to wrap a bracelet made with sea shells around my wrist. He explained that sea shells were once used as currency, so this was a highly treasured gift.
"You like my gift? Now you give me gift. How much money you have? You will not give me gift? Why? You do not like Senegalese people? You do not like black people? Come with me to my shop. I give you girlfriend."
I had to smile and chuckle at his approach, but still I nodded in the negative and thanked him for his time as I took off the bracelet to return his merchandise.
"You do not like Senegalese girls? You do not like black girls? Perhaps you would like a young boy?"
No!! No!! No!! I love Senegalese girls! I love black girls!
"Then, you come with me and I give you black, Senegalese girlfriend. Just come take a look at my work"...
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The Street Children and Le Circque de Dakar
The circus was in town! Okay, not in a Ringling Bros./Barnum & Bailey fashion, but a local troupe was hired by the Rotary Club of Almadies to help raise funds for a truly worthy cause. I decided to take two of my finer students as my guests to reward them for their volunteer efforts around campus and this was - by far - one of the most memorable experiences I've had in Dakar.
We were greeted at the door by a man on stilts and then deftly avoided a unicycle rider (or did he deftly avoid us?!) as we mingled with other guests before taking our seats. There were approximately 250 people of all ages in the audience. The performance was held in a recently renovated open-air theatre.
The "emcee" of the circus was a buffoon-like clown who was ably assisted by a mime sidekick. Unlike the colorful clowns in the U.S., these gentlemen - as well as the entire troupe - were dressed in black and white, including black and white face paint. The buffoon was approximately 6 feet, 5 inches tall including his incredibly spiked out hair. His worthy companion was 5 feet, 9 inches at most which obviously made for a series of running gags wherein the shorter clown would "shadow" the bigger clown while performing outlandish mimics of the emcee.
The first act of the circus consisted of high flying acrobatics, as teams of two or three African gymnasts performed. They were accompanied by a live band of traditional-style West African musicians. I have to admit this was the first time I had heard more than a smattering a "real" Dakar music as most of the streets are filled with African hip-hop or contemporary American style music and it was much more pleasant than the African hip-hop and contemporary music.
There was a break for intermission as we settled in to a collasal feast, which becomes all the more essential to this story. The beneficiary of this event was The Empire De Enfants, a home for street children. Whatever image you just conjured with regard to the phrase "street children" pales in comparison to the actual stories and conditions faced by these children, as I was soon to learn...
After the intermission, the next component of the evening's entertainment was a documentary film about these street children. In the rural areas of Senegal, where people have never seen a city, parents are often persuaded to allow their children to attend "Koranic" schools in Dakar. Children as young as four years old are then sent to the city where - at 6:00pm each evening - they are essentially let loose on the streets with buckets and sent begging for spare change in order to eat. Each child is responsible for collecting approximately $1.50 per day - with the funds turned over to their "teacher." The children often do not bathe since they have learned dirtier children look more needy.
Enter Anta Mbow - a native Senegalese woman who spent many years in France. Anta has a deep, hoarse voice reminiscent of a blues singer playing for spare change in a Mississippi fish fry. Her voice seems to lend authenticity to the plight of the children. Mbow and a partner took over the formerly abandoned open-air theatre and turned it into a home for the street children. The documentary film showed the children painting the walls, repairing broken walls and working hard to make this their new home and school. The ultimate goal is to "re-introduce" these children into a family environment. It takes a great deal of convincing to even get the street children to come into the Empire de Enfants because they have learned not to trust adults.
Needless to say, the Koranic teachers are not happy; fear and punishment are their primary sources of motivation to keep the street children in check. Therefore a guard must be posted at the Empire 24/7 to protect the children. After the film, Mbow detailed the story of one particular guard who was especially vigilant in making sure the teachers do not attempt to kidnap the children back into a live of servitude. This particular guard was formerly a street child himself.
After the documentary, there was an auction of children's artwork. The artwork was developed for a project to sell holiday cards to help raise funds for the Empire de Enfants. The auction was absolutely the highlight of the evening...
There was a happy young man, about six or seven years old, sitting just a few seats away from us who quickly grasped the concept of "bidding" after his mother allowed him to raise a hand on one of the items. Even though his parents appeared to be fairly well off, I don't think they could have imagined how much they would be spending that night as a direct result of his enthusiasm for the remainder of the night! The mother finally had to physically restrain the child, who was laughing hysterically as he would sneak a hand up in an attempt to keep the bidding going. Others in the audience would outbid the young child, but our hero would always find a way to continue to run up the bids - with a little help and a wink/nod from the auctioneer. All told, the auction raised over $400 from selling ten pieces of children's artwork. Nice job, young man...
After another set of acrobatics, the audience was treated to a performance by the street children. They gathered in a choir format and sang a couple of songs for the audience. They were out of tune, out of beat and rarely stood in a straight line but the idea that 30 young children who just a few months before might have been sleeping on the streets could now be coordinated into a chorus was enough to bring the house down.
The evening concluded with a fireworks show, but I think the greater "light" came the following week when the Rotary Almadies Club announced they had raised approximately $8,000 for the Empire de Enfants. This will cover approximately 2 months of operating expenses and was twice the targeted amount.
We were greeted at the door by a man on stilts and then deftly avoided a unicycle rider (or did he deftly avoid us?!) as we mingled with other guests before taking our seats. There were approximately 250 people of all ages in the audience. The performance was held in a recently renovated open-air theatre.
The "emcee" of the circus was a buffoon-like clown who was ably assisted by a mime sidekick. Unlike the colorful clowns in the U.S., these gentlemen - as well as the entire troupe - were dressed in black and white, including black and white face paint. The buffoon was approximately 6 feet, 5 inches tall including his incredibly spiked out hair. His worthy companion was 5 feet, 9 inches at most which obviously made for a series of running gags wherein the shorter clown would "shadow" the bigger clown while performing outlandish mimics of the emcee.
The first act of the circus consisted of high flying acrobatics, as teams of two or three African gymnasts performed. They were accompanied by a live band of traditional-style West African musicians. I have to admit this was the first time I had heard more than a smattering a "real" Dakar music as most of the streets are filled with African hip-hop or contemporary American style music and it was much more pleasant than the African hip-hop and contemporary music.
There was a break for intermission as we settled in to a collasal feast, which becomes all the more essential to this story. The beneficiary of this event was The Empire De Enfants, a home for street children. Whatever image you just conjured with regard to the phrase "street children" pales in comparison to the actual stories and conditions faced by these children, as I was soon to learn...
After the intermission, the next component of the evening's entertainment was a documentary film about these street children. In the rural areas of Senegal, where people have never seen a city, parents are often persuaded to allow their children to attend "Koranic" schools in Dakar. Children as young as four years old are then sent to the city where - at 6:00pm each evening - they are essentially let loose on the streets with buckets and sent begging for spare change in order to eat. Each child is responsible for collecting approximately $1.50 per day - with the funds turned over to their "teacher." The children often do not bathe since they have learned dirtier children look more needy.
Enter Anta Mbow - a native Senegalese woman who spent many years in France. Anta has a deep, hoarse voice reminiscent of a blues singer playing for spare change in a Mississippi fish fry. Her voice seems to lend authenticity to the plight of the children. Mbow and a partner took over the formerly abandoned open-air theatre and turned it into a home for the street children. The documentary film showed the children painting the walls, repairing broken walls and working hard to make this their new home and school. The ultimate goal is to "re-introduce" these children into a family environment. It takes a great deal of convincing to even get the street children to come into the Empire de Enfants because they have learned not to trust adults.
Needless to say, the Koranic teachers are not happy; fear and punishment are their primary sources of motivation to keep the street children in check. Therefore a guard must be posted at the Empire 24/7 to protect the children. After the film, Mbow detailed the story of one particular guard who was especially vigilant in making sure the teachers do not attempt to kidnap the children back into a live of servitude. This particular guard was formerly a street child himself.
After the documentary, there was an auction of children's artwork. The artwork was developed for a project to sell holiday cards to help raise funds for the Empire de Enfants. The auction was absolutely the highlight of the evening...
There was a happy young man, about six or seven years old, sitting just a few seats away from us who quickly grasped the concept of "bidding" after his mother allowed him to raise a hand on one of the items. Even though his parents appeared to be fairly well off, I don't think they could have imagined how much they would be spending that night as a direct result of his enthusiasm for the remainder of the night! The mother finally had to physically restrain the child, who was laughing hysterically as he would sneak a hand up in an attempt to keep the bidding going. Others in the audience would outbid the young child, but our hero would always find a way to continue to run up the bids - with a little help and a wink/nod from the auctioneer. All told, the auction raised over $400 from selling ten pieces of children's artwork. Nice job, young man...
After another set of acrobatics, the audience was treated to a performance by the street children. They gathered in a choir format and sang a couple of songs for the audience. They were out of tune, out of beat and rarely stood in a straight line but the idea that 30 young children who just a few months before might have been sleeping on the streets could now be coordinated into a chorus was enough to bring the house down.
The evening concluded with a fireworks show, but I think the greater "light" came the following week when the Rotary Almadies Club announced they had raised approximately $8,000 for the Empire de Enfants. This will cover approximately 2 months of operating expenses and was twice the targeted amount.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
A Great Feast
The alternate title for this blog entry was, "A Sad Day For Goats." I finally figured out why there are goats everywhere in this city, or at least why there WERE goats every where in this city...
Wednesday was Tabaski, which is the Muslim equivalent of Thanksgiving and a time of great feasts. I think I have found the secret to world peace: declare every day a holiday to be celebrated with a great feast. The streets were mostly barren here on Wednesday - with some carryover celebration into Thursday. Heck, many people took Friday off also.
With the holiday, the head of the family must get a ram to feed his family. While the cost of a ram is reasonable (maybe 60,000 CFA, or $120), you may remember wages of many workers here are as little as 50,000 to 60,000 per month so it is quite normal for the head of household to save for several months to be able to buy this ram. It is also quite normal in Senegal for the head of household to have more than one wife, which means that a man could literally save up for the entire year to provide both of his wives with a traditional feast.
This is probably a subject for a different blog entry, but who would want two wives, anyway? The wives can't be too happy ("Honey, I think I'll be sleeping with you-know-who tonight") which obviously must lead to twice as much nagging for the man. But back to our regularly scheduled broadcast:
For Thanksgiving, we Americans have mostly chosen the humane solution for feasting which is the drive down to the local supermarket to pick up our feast already decapitated, plucked and with a packet of giblets inserted into its cavity that can be easily thrown away (with thanks to the folks at Plainville Turkey Farm for doing all the decapitating for us!).
For Tabaski, the head of household is expected to bring home a real, live ram. A real, live ram tied up to a post right under my bedroom window for the entire night before the feast. A real, live ram that bleats all night long while tied up to a post under my bedroom window for the entire night before the feast. Frankly, I wish they would learn to buy their meat at the store, but this holiday is all about sacrifice...
I wandered through several different neighborhoods on Tabaski to see some of the sacrificing. The man is in charge of slitting the throat of the ram (after much prayer and thanks, of course) and then the animal is carved up on premise. I saw buckets overflowing with goat parts and not a single piece goes to waste. It's pretty disconcerting to see a bucket with goat intestines and eyeballs sloshing around, and I'm not sure what one guy was trying to do with the skull (although he was holding his machete in an upright, Samurai position as I walked past), but give these people credit in the "waste not, want not" department.
The holiday is celebrated because the Bible says Abraham was supposed to sacrifice his only son but instead of a son, God came down and provided a sheep instead. Or a goat, I guess, depending on the region you live. I say the Bible, but this is where it gets a little tricky, because the Muslims have a different Bible called the Koran that says the same thing. The only difference is that Abraham's only son is two different people because Abraham had two sons, Isaac and Ishmael because Abraham had two wives (at the time anyway) although he cast out one wife with the son Ishmael and kept the other Isaac, although he didn't really keep either one because God said he had to sacrifice "the son he loved", which the Muslims say must have been Ishmael and the Jews say must have been Isaac because he had already cast out Ishmael even though the Bible also says Abraham only has one son. So, Ishmael is the father of the Muslims and Isaac is the father of the Jews although Isaac and Jesus pretty much led the same exact life (only begotten son, took a donkey up a hill, son carried the wood to sacrifice himself on his back, etc.), so I guess Isaac is the father of the Christians, but Abraham was the real father of everyone - or so it seems - because he got married again and had lots more children and lived to be 137 years old.
I'll put my views on religion aside for a moment, but the fact that people want to kill each other over the interpretation of a book that has so many tall tales and inconsistencies makes me wonder if maybe we'd be a whole lot further along if God had spared the ram and actually taken the son.
Tens of thousands of goats in Senegal would surely have agreed.
Wednesday was Tabaski, which is the Muslim equivalent of Thanksgiving and a time of great feasts. I think I have found the secret to world peace: declare every day a holiday to be celebrated with a great feast. The streets were mostly barren here on Wednesday - with some carryover celebration into Thursday. Heck, many people took Friday off also.
With the holiday, the head of the family must get a ram to feed his family. While the cost of a ram is reasonable (maybe 60,000 CFA, or $120), you may remember wages of many workers here are as little as 50,000 to 60,000 per month so it is quite normal for the head of household to save for several months to be able to buy this ram. It is also quite normal in Senegal for the head of household to have more than one wife, which means that a man could literally save up for the entire year to provide both of his wives with a traditional feast.
This is probably a subject for a different blog entry, but who would want two wives, anyway? The wives can't be too happy ("Honey, I think I'll be sleeping with you-know-who tonight") which obviously must lead to twice as much nagging for the man. But back to our regularly scheduled broadcast:
For Thanksgiving, we Americans have mostly chosen the humane solution for feasting which is the drive down to the local supermarket to pick up our feast already decapitated, plucked and with a packet of giblets inserted into its cavity that can be easily thrown away (with thanks to the folks at Plainville Turkey Farm for doing all the decapitating for us!).
For Tabaski, the head of household is expected to bring home a real, live ram. A real, live ram tied up to a post right under my bedroom window for the entire night before the feast. A real, live ram that bleats all night long while tied up to a post under my bedroom window for the entire night before the feast. Frankly, I wish they would learn to buy their meat at the store, but this holiday is all about sacrifice...
I wandered through several different neighborhoods on Tabaski to see some of the sacrificing. The man is in charge of slitting the throat of the ram (after much prayer and thanks, of course) and then the animal is carved up on premise. I saw buckets overflowing with goat parts and not a single piece goes to waste. It's pretty disconcerting to see a bucket with goat intestines and eyeballs sloshing around, and I'm not sure what one guy was trying to do with the skull (although he was holding his machete in an upright, Samurai position as I walked past), but give these people credit in the "waste not, want not" department.
The holiday is celebrated because the Bible says Abraham was supposed to sacrifice his only son but instead of a son, God came down and provided a sheep instead. Or a goat, I guess, depending on the region you live. I say the Bible, but this is where it gets a little tricky, because the Muslims have a different Bible called the Koran that says the same thing. The only difference is that Abraham's only son is two different people because Abraham had two sons, Isaac and Ishmael because Abraham had two wives (at the time anyway) although he cast out one wife with the son Ishmael and kept the other Isaac, although he didn't really keep either one because God said he had to sacrifice "the son he loved", which the Muslims say must have been Ishmael and the Jews say must have been Isaac because he had already cast out Ishmael even though the Bible also says Abraham only has one son. So, Ishmael is the father of the Muslims and Isaac is the father of the Jews although Isaac and Jesus pretty much led the same exact life (only begotten son, took a donkey up a hill, son carried the wood to sacrifice himself on his back, etc.), so I guess Isaac is the father of the Christians, but Abraham was the real father of everyone - or so it seems - because he got married again and had lots more children and lived to be 137 years old.
I'll put my views on religion aside for a moment, but the fact that people want to kill each other over the interpretation of a book that has so many tall tales and inconsistencies makes me wonder if maybe we'd be a whole lot further along if God had spared the ram and actually taken the son.
Tens of thousands of goats in Senegal would surely have agreed.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
On the U.S. Role in West Africa
I always enjoyed the way philosophers of old would name their treatise with "On", such as "On the Philosophy of Natural History" or "On Liberty." Given the vast importance of this topic, I thought it deserved to be accompanied by at least some pomp and circumstance...
Senegal is seen as the centerpoint of the West African region for a few reasons. All of West Africa was formerly under control by the French, which means it was underdeveloped and the people were lazy, but the wine was good. Oh wait, that's France!
Actually, the reason Senegal is the focal point is because you rarely hear about it in the news. It has never been mired in a modern history civil war. It has a stable democracy - including a peaceful transition after the defeat of a major political party. And, more important, it's not Nigeria.
Traditionally, all of Africa has served as sort of a pillaging ground for developed nations. Europeans pillaged natural resources in the 1700's and 1800's and - heck! - the United States pillaged 10's of millions of people during that little period known as slavery. After World War II, some of the European nations lost their appetite for colonizing the world and in the mid-1960's, the French gave up control of this region. Hold that thought for a moment, while I turn my attention to the U.S. role.
I had an opportunity to meet with the U.S. ambassador and several dozen U.S. citizens in a "town hall" format meeting this week. None of these people have real jobs; they are all here working as missionaries or serving in some other "non-governmental organization" doling out alms to the less fortunate. In all the time these people have been here, they haven't made one iota of a difference. I'm sure they can point to many instances of meaningful assistance, but from a macro-political/macro-economic view, they haven't had any impact whatsoever.
From a military strategic perspective, the United States has never had a major presence in Senegal. There are very few natural resources worth fighting for in this country. There is no oil, no gold, no diamonds - just a giant fibrous plant called the baobab. So, what's changed and what is the U.S. role?
Well, when the French left the region in the 1960's, the vacuum of power in many areas was sucked up by the Muslims. Which means the money that started flowing into the region after the French left was Arab money. New roads, infrastructure, etc. were being developed and the only thing these new benefactors asked for in return was THEIR SOUL (que soundtrack for deep, dark villianous laughter). For example, the major thoroughfare near my residence was widened and re-paved, but the Muslims were allowed to build a giant mosque on a nice swath of waterfront land that previously served as a major launch for traditional fishing boats.
So, the U.S. finally took notice that it was losing the war over the hearts and minds of an entire region and decided to do something about it. It was going to build a giant, waterfront embassy about a half mile away from that new mosque. We secured the rights to build our version of a waterfront temple on a couple of cliffside acres overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Well, technically, it was cliffside hectarage, but Americans don't know what a hectare is and (without the help of one of the fine readers of this publication, I wouldn't have spelled it correctly either), so I'll continue to refer to it as acreage.
Then, the Army Corps of Engineers came in and determined it was unsafe to build on this couple of cliffside acres overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. So, now we the world's most expensive softball diamond and children's playground facility in all of West Africa!
Never mind that all around this region, there is new construction on every other plot of cliffside acreage. A massive new shopping mall was developed next to a massive new Radisson Blu hotel next to a massive new artistic monument. The U.S. of A. picked the one place on the entire coastline that could not be built upon.
In true U.S. fashion, we would not sit idly by and become the laughingstock of West Africa. No, it was time to turn to Plan B. We usurped the region formerly known as "Club Med" in a very tony beachside neighborhood, tore down the entire facility and have now broken ground on a new facility that will cover enough space to host Super Bowl VXIII. The new embassy building is expected to be complete in spring 2013 (yes, it's that big) and will employ 525 employees including a new U.S. Marine Security Guard quarters.
And why are we doing this? Unfortunately, parts of West Africa have recently become a training ground for Islamic terrorists. Forget Pakistan and Afghanistan - regions that have been at war since I've been alive - and welcome to the peaceful side of West Africa. The deserts of Mali are where the secret wars are being fought, and you can expect U.S. military troops to die here.
On the U.S. role in West Africa? In the paraphrased words of Bob Yamate, newly appointed Deputy Chief at the embassy, "We just completed construction on a new school building in a rural area. That school has the emblem of the United States indelibly etched into the building. That's the type of goodwill that will last longer than anything else we can do over here."
Hopefully, we're not too late to the party.
Senegal is seen as the centerpoint of the West African region for a few reasons. All of West Africa was formerly under control by the French, which means it was underdeveloped and the people were lazy, but the wine was good. Oh wait, that's France!
Actually, the reason Senegal is the focal point is because you rarely hear about it in the news. It has never been mired in a modern history civil war. It has a stable democracy - including a peaceful transition after the defeat of a major political party. And, more important, it's not Nigeria.
Traditionally, all of Africa has served as sort of a pillaging ground for developed nations. Europeans pillaged natural resources in the 1700's and 1800's and - heck! - the United States pillaged 10's of millions of people during that little period known as slavery. After World War II, some of the European nations lost their appetite for colonizing the world and in the mid-1960's, the French gave up control of this region. Hold that thought for a moment, while I turn my attention to the U.S. role.
I had an opportunity to meet with the U.S. ambassador and several dozen U.S. citizens in a "town hall" format meeting this week. None of these people have real jobs; they are all here working as missionaries or serving in some other "non-governmental organization" doling out alms to the less fortunate. In all the time these people have been here, they haven't made one iota of a difference. I'm sure they can point to many instances of meaningful assistance, but from a macro-political/macro-economic view, they haven't had any impact whatsoever.
From a military strategic perspective, the United States has never had a major presence in Senegal. There are very few natural resources worth fighting for in this country. There is no oil, no gold, no diamonds - just a giant fibrous plant called the baobab. So, what's changed and what is the U.S. role?
Well, when the French left the region in the 1960's, the vacuum of power in many areas was sucked up by the Muslims. Which means the money that started flowing into the region after the French left was Arab money. New roads, infrastructure, etc. were being developed and the only thing these new benefactors asked for in return was THEIR SOUL (que soundtrack for deep, dark villianous laughter). For example, the major thoroughfare near my residence was widened and re-paved, but the Muslims were allowed to build a giant mosque on a nice swath of waterfront land that previously served as a major launch for traditional fishing boats.
So, the U.S. finally took notice that it was losing the war over the hearts and minds of an entire region and decided to do something about it. It was going to build a giant, waterfront embassy about a half mile away from that new mosque. We secured the rights to build our version of a waterfront temple on a couple of cliffside acres overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Well, technically, it was cliffside hectarage, but Americans don't know what a hectare is and (without the help of one of the fine readers of this publication, I wouldn't have spelled it correctly either), so I'll continue to refer to it as acreage.
Then, the Army Corps of Engineers came in and determined it was unsafe to build on this couple of cliffside acres overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. So, now we the world's most expensive softball diamond and children's playground facility in all of West Africa!
Never mind that all around this region, there is new construction on every other plot of cliffside acreage. A massive new shopping mall was developed next to a massive new Radisson Blu hotel next to a massive new artistic monument. The U.S. of A. picked the one place on the entire coastline that could not be built upon.
In true U.S. fashion, we would not sit idly by and become the laughingstock of West Africa. No, it was time to turn to Plan B. We usurped the region formerly known as "Club Med" in a very tony beachside neighborhood, tore down the entire facility and have now broken ground on a new facility that will cover enough space to host Super Bowl VXIII. The new embassy building is expected to be complete in spring 2013 (yes, it's that big) and will employ 525 employees including a new U.S. Marine Security Guard quarters.
And why are we doing this? Unfortunately, parts of West Africa have recently become a training ground for Islamic terrorists. Forget Pakistan and Afghanistan - regions that have been at war since I've been alive - and welcome to the peaceful side of West Africa. The deserts of Mali are where the secret wars are being fought, and you can expect U.S. military troops to die here.
On the U.S. role in West Africa? In the paraphrased words of Bob Yamate, newly appointed Deputy Chief at the embassy, "We just completed construction on a new school building in a rural area. That school has the emblem of the United States indelibly etched into the building. That's the type of goodwill that will last longer than anything else we can do over here."
Hopefully, we're not too late to the party.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Island Celebration
This weekend was the Goree Diaspora Festival. For more information on this festival, please visit http://www.goreediasporafestival.org/programme.html
The website is written mostly in French, so I'm not sure of the exact purpose of the festival, other than one of the islanders telling me it serves as a nice kick off to the annual tourist season for the Ile de Goree.
There are two ways to reach Goree Island from Dakar. The first is to rent a traditional fishing boat that is the size of a four man shell utilized by college crew teams on the Charles River. I predict this vessel has an 85% chance of capsizing. The second method is to go to the new ferry terminal and take a large seaworthy vessel named "BEER." I couldn't make that up if I tried. "BEER" costs 5,000 CFA (about $10) for the round trip and is about a 15 minute ride. Beer is not included on "BEER", but I'm thinking you could BYO.
The great thing about developing nations is the complete lack of detail for safety features that would have started numerous lawsuits in the United States. When we docked, two of the ship's crew helped us jump off onto a long, concrete breakwall/dock. And I mean jump because the gap was well over two feet. Then, if the waves ever crested the breakwall, it would have sent a few dozen people (including senior citizens) directly into the bay. By the way, senior citizens were hoisted by both arms and swung onto the dock if unable to jump.
We were traveling with a dignatary - the former minister of education - who is well liked throughout Senegal. Goree Island's Iman (Muslim leader), as well as several other important looking people, greeted us on the dock. This was especially nice because the minister himself is Christian and the purpose of his visit was to pay homage to the Catholic church on the island during the festival.
Of course, our welcome paled in comparison to the welcome given when the next boat arrived carrying none other than Pedro Pires. Who? You'll just have to click onto this next website to find out. Please make sure your volume is turned up because I would not want you to miss this stirring version of their national anthem http://capeverde-islands.com/pedropires.html
Pedro had at least a dozen military officers surrounding him, the entire police force of Goree Island (all four of them), plus an assortment of men with suits and even more important looking people. I estimate Pedro is no more than 4 feet, 3 inches tall but you can't really tell that from his photo.
Goree Island is one of the most visited tourist destinations in Dakar, if not all of West Africa, for a very odd reason: The House of Slaves. The House of Slaves is one of the oldest buildings on the island and today serves as a monument to the Dark History of the Dark Continent.
You can walk through cement holding cells with separate quarters for men, women and children. There are even tighter quarters for the rabble rousers and dissidents. According to the guides, millions of slaves were chained together two-by-two with heavy shackles and boarded onto awaiting ships through the very famous "Door of No Return." The door itself is actually an opening at the end of a long cement corridor. Ironically, the opening looks incredibly inviting as the sea green waves brilliantly offset the darkness of this exit. Unfortunately, the end result was not so incredibly inviting and many slaves chose instead to jump - still shackled - into the shark inhabited waters and to a certain death.
Now comes the biggest horror of all: Not much of this is actually true. I had the good fortune to be introduced to a history professor who retired to Goree Island. I learned the House of Slaves was built in 1776 (how's that for irony?!), nearly 200 years after the slave trade was established. Slaves were most likely loaded onto ships at a nearby beach because the area adjacent to the Door of No Return is too rocky for any boat to set anchor. Next, the number of slaves that actually left from Goree Island probably measured in the thousands, not millions, given the small capacity of the island itself (about 1,100 year round residents today). Still, the building is an especially poignant tribute.
Now back to the fun stuff. Goree Island is an incredibly laid back place that combines the best of Jamaica and Peaks Island. Maine residents will understand the Peaks reference because it's just a short ferry ride from Portland, but a world away. Many of the local men wear dreadlocks, and many islanders choose to work as artists or merchants selling local arts and crafts. One estimate says 500,000 people visit the island each year, so this is especially welcome news for the residents who would otherwise have no source of income.
I met many islanders including a guide who steered me into his mother's restaurant (good) and then stiffed me for a beer (not so good, but I would have bought him one anyway). The funny part was that I saw him about an hour later and his eyes lit up as he said, "I was looking for you!"
But my favorite was a Rastafarian looking dude (his name is pronounded Day-lee, but I have no clue how to spell it) who instructed me on how to play the kora, an ultra-cool instrument that any guitarist would be immediately drawn to. The kora is essentially a multi-stringed lute with a body made from a hallowed out, giant gourd and strings of nylon fishing line. Day-lee then asked me to purchase the instrument for $100, but I was good enough to inform him that only a fool would travel to Goree with $100.
Who wants to bet on whether or not I'll come home with a kora?
The website is written mostly in French, so I'm not sure of the exact purpose of the festival, other than one of the islanders telling me it serves as a nice kick off to the annual tourist season for the Ile de Goree.
There are two ways to reach Goree Island from Dakar. The first is to rent a traditional fishing boat that is the size of a four man shell utilized by college crew teams on the Charles River. I predict this vessel has an 85% chance of capsizing. The second method is to go to the new ferry terminal and take a large seaworthy vessel named "BEER." I couldn't make that up if I tried. "BEER" costs 5,000 CFA (about $10) for the round trip and is about a 15 minute ride. Beer is not included on "BEER", but I'm thinking you could BYO.
The great thing about developing nations is the complete lack of detail for safety features that would have started numerous lawsuits in the United States. When we docked, two of the ship's crew helped us jump off onto a long, concrete breakwall/dock. And I mean jump because the gap was well over two feet. Then, if the waves ever crested the breakwall, it would have sent a few dozen people (including senior citizens) directly into the bay. By the way, senior citizens were hoisted by both arms and swung onto the dock if unable to jump.
We were traveling with a dignatary - the former minister of education - who is well liked throughout Senegal. Goree Island's Iman (Muslim leader), as well as several other important looking people, greeted us on the dock. This was especially nice because the minister himself is Christian and the purpose of his visit was to pay homage to the Catholic church on the island during the festival.
Of course, our welcome paled in comparison to the welcome given when the next boat arrived carrying none other than Pedro Pires. Who? You'll just have to click onto this next website to find out. Please make sure your volume is turned up because I would not want you to miss this stirring version of their national anthem http://capeverde-islands.com/pedropires.html
Pedro had at least a dozen military officers surrounding him, the entire police force of Goree Island (all four of them), plus an assortment of men with suits and even more important looking people. I estimate Pedro is no more than 4 feet, 3 inches tall but you can't really tell that from his photo.
Goree Island is one of the most visited tourist destinations in Dakar, if not all of West Africa, for a very odd reason: The House of Slaves. The House of Slaves is one of the oldest buildings on the island and today serves as a monument to the Dark History of the Dark Continent.
You can walk through cement holding cells with separate quarters for men, women and children. There are even tighter quarters for the rabble rousers and dissidents. According to the guides, millions of slaves were chained together two-by-two with heavy shackles and boarded onto awaiting ships through the very famous "Door of No Return." The door itself is actually an opening at the end of a long cement corridor. Ironically, the opening looks incredibly inviting as the sea green waves brilliantly offset the darkness of this exit. Unfortunately, the end result was not so incredibly inviting and many slaves chose instead to jump - still shackled - into the shark inhabited waters and to a certain death.
Now comes the biggest horror of all: Not much of this is actually true. I had the good fortune to be introduced to a history professor who retired to Goree Island. I learned the House of Slaves was built in 1776 (how's that for irony?!), nearly 200 years after the slave trade was established. Slaves were most likely loaded onto ships at a nearby beach because the area adjacent to the Door of No Return is too rocky for any boat to set anchor. Next, the number of slaves that actually left from Goree Island probably measured in the thousands, not millions, given the small capacity of the island itself (about 1,100 year round residents today). Still, the building is an especially poignant tribute.
Now back to the fun stuff. Goree Island is an incredibly laid back place that combines the best of Jamaica and Peaks Island. Maine residents will understand the Peaks reference because it's just a short ferry ride from Portland, but a world away. Many of the local men wear dreadlocks, and many islanders choose to work as artists or merchants selling local arts and crafts. One estimate says 500,000 people visit the island each year, so this is especially welcome news for the residents who would otherwise have no source of income.
I met many islanders including a guide who steered me into his mother's restaurant (good) and then stiffed me for a beer (not so good, but I would have bought him one anyway). The funny part was that I saw him about an hour later and his eyes lit up as he said, "I was looking for you!"
But my favorite was a Rastafarian looking dude (his name is pronounded Day-lee, but I have no clue how to spell it) who instructed me on how to play the kora, an ultra-cool instrument that any guitarist would be immediately drawn to. The kora is essentially a multi-stringed lute with a body made from a hallowed out, giant gourd and strings of nylon fishing line. Day-lee then asked me to purchase the instrument for $100, but I was good enough to inform him that only a fool would travel to Goree with $100.
Who wants to bet on whether or not I'll come home with a kora?
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