My stay in the village of Semecouta

During the week where all my friends back at Davidson were either taking cruises, relaxing at home, or going crazy on the beach, I was having a different type of spring break experience. Last week, SIT took us across the country to Kedagou, Senegal, where we would be doing our village homestays. The 21 students were split into 6 different groups and shipped off to our respective villages for what promised to be an experience unlike any other. My village was called Semcouta.

My experience in the village of Semecouta is a difficult one to articulate in a way that will do it justice, but I will try my best to do so. It is a village that lies in the remote outskirts of Kedagou, a region in the southeastern most part of Senegal. To get there, one must take a series of winding, dusty roads approximately 10 km from the city center. Yet while the settlement seemingly lies just a few miles down the road, the worlds that exist in the city and the village could not be more dissimilar.

Here yellow taxi cabs are replaced by cattle, homes made of brick are replaced by those made of mud, and street lights are replaced by the multitudes of small fires that burn within the various compounds each night.

The people of Semecouta are undoubtedly some of the kindest and most hospitable I’ve ever come across. Their silvery Senegalese accents are distinctly different than their counterparts in Dakar. Surely similar to the way that accents in the United States typically become more pronounced as one moves from the city center and out to the rural countryside. Additionally, the citizens of Semecouta are members of the Dejanke (pronounced Ja-hon-kay) tribe, a ethnic group that immigrated to Senegal from Mali hundreds of years ago yet have maintained their cultural by seemingly removing themselves from Westernized culture.

My host family was the Cissokho family. Upon my arrival I was greeted by my host-father, Lamine Cissokho. A tall, thin man, his distinct wrinkles and weathered skin probably make him look older than he actually is. He showed me to the hut in which I’d be saying and introduced me to my new family. He and his family live in a compound of about 12 huts with the families of Monsieur Cissohko’s older and younger brothers. All together, I believe that about 35 people live the compound. I was immediately welcomed into the family and shown the unwavering “teranga” (hospitality) that Senegal has come to be known for.

Over the course of my stay in the village I did a multitude of things. Some of them were with Elena and Whitney, the other SIT students who stayed in the same village (although in different compounds). We spoke with the headmaster of local primary school about the education system in the village and the obstacles that the school is faced with due a lack of

 monetary resources. Although nearly half of the Senegalese government’s budget supposedly goes towards education, the primary school in Semecouta has 317 students and only 5 classrooms, three students share one desk, most parent cannot afford to buy their children notebooks, and the during the dry season temperatures in the classroom can exceed 110 degrees. The list goes on and on. The discussions were certainly sobering.

Again, as it continually has throughout my trip here, soccer has proven to be an extremely useful cultural icebreaker. Each evening I would walk over to the dirt field down the road, and play in what ended up being extremely competitive games with the older boys and young men in the village. Afterwards, I would walk with them back to their compounds where we would discuss how life in Semecouta is relative to that of Dakar and even the United States. We would exchange stories ranging from hilarious to somber on the political, social, and economic dynamics of our respective countries. It was in these conversations that I learned more than I ever could within the confines of a classroom.

I’ve always understood poverty. I’ve always been aware of its social, psychological, and emotional implications. But never before have I lived it. Never before have I been immersed in the very conditions that make me so despondent when I see them on television and the internet back in the States. And never have I developed intimate and personal relationships with those who have lived under the umbrella of poverty for their entire lives. But I have done all of that now. These people know they are poor. They know that whether or not their children are able to eat at night depends on factors that are often beyond their control. Things such as the weather, the river, and if the animals they rely on to eat and sell breed effectively with one another.

            Things that I deem necessities back home are seen as luxuries here. Things such as closed toed shoes, more than more pair of pants, pillows and sheets, etc. Even things such as medical care and dental care do not exist here. If someone needs medical treatment, they have to borrow one of the 3 cars in the village and drive to Kedogou. Even this, however, becomes a rare occurrence, seeing as how if someone goes to see a doctor they probably won’t have the money to pay for it. Most of the time, people decide against going. Imagine breaking your foot and trying to fix it with tree branches and mud because you know that the potential medical expenses will take away from the amount of food you will have for your family to eat. These are the realities of life here.

But I’ve also learned what I believe is an even more important lesson. Now if you know me, you know I’ve never been one to equate wealth with making one directly happy. However, I will admit that, whether it was my own ignorance and naivety or the way that the media has portrayed it to me over the course of my life, I have typically associated poverty with some sort of unhappiness and misery. But this is not the case. These people are poor yes, but that does not mean they are miserable. They live with an easy-going happiness and sense of community that is far too infrequent in the United States. They know that they don’t have much, but they do not wallow in self-pity. They are happy for what they have and even happier that they have each other.

If living in Dakar was getting out of my comfort zone, than living in Semecouta was like being on another planet. But even as I say that, I realize that the people of Semecouta and I are far more alike than not. I can say that without question, it was the most humbling experience of my life, and I am a better person because of it.