Bad News Abroad

Just as a disclaimer, I have a presentation tomorrow to research and write, 3 papers due, and a test I need to study for. So blog writing now is obviously a good choice.

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Driving home from our rural visits, my friend got a call from her sister in the States. She was laughing on the phone, and then her face suddenly turned very serious. She gasped, let out a long string of *&%$#*&#!!! and then asked in her
still-shocked voice, “When’s the funeral?”

This is the third brush with death I’ve had in Senegal.

Experiencing a death abroad is a very strange thing.

Thankfully there have been no deaths of immediate family members of anyone on the program this semester. Friends’ parents and parents’ friends only.

But then again, if you’re the one grieving, this ambigiously defined relationship to the deceased makes the empathy bit even more challenging for your Senegalese support system. Because you have no direct connection to the deceased person, there are no automatic implications of how your life will change as a result of the death. It’s not your mom or dad, so you don’t have to worry about being supported or having that mentor to guide you. It’s not your brother or sister, so you haven’t lost your childhood and lifelong friend. With no clear or obvious relationship defined, it’s hard for other people here to understand what it is exactly that you’ve lost. Who exactly you have lost.

People on the program or in your host family may ask, “Who died?” All you can say is, “a family friend” or “my friend’s dad”… but how could they ever even begin to know who that person really was to you and what their death means from those few words?

Yes, a family friend. But so much more than that, too.

A huge part of grieving is being among the other people who share your same loss. Crying together, remembering together, sitting together. But here, you are literally the only person in the entire country who is grieving this person’s passing. As much as people here would like to try, they just don’t know who or how to grieve. It’s not possible.

When I received news of my own friend’s dad dying this semester, I think it was the most alone I have ever felt in all my time abroad. I had never even met my friend’s dad, and it was something that had been a long time coming. Even so, when I read the news, I just sat with his obituary on my computer screen and bawled. I mean big, heaving sobs.

If I had been in the States among my friends that knew him, I truly do not think I would have had the same reaction. The gift of grieving with other people is that you share your sorrows, you don’t carry them alone. But being far away, alone—I felt a weight, a need to grieve in a bigger way because I was the only one around who could convey the sadness of what had happened.

Being far away when the death occurred was such an isolating feeling, but I sensed such a strong connection to the people who I knew were grieving at home, too. My heart felt like it had left and gone back to the States to join the rest of the people in mourning.

I finally understand the meaning of the phrase, “My heart goes out to you.”

Having already experienced the news of a death at home, I knew what my friend must have been feeling when she got off the phone with her sister. But in the quiet car ride back to Dakar, I knew that even with my experience, I, too, was powerless to reach out to her in the way her friends and family in the States could at this time.

So we rode back in a heavy silence, bodies present, but knowing that each heart and mind was wandering to be with their loved ones in a different corner of the world.

What Happens When I Shop Alone

In the past two weeks I managed to get one flip flop stolen from a pack of wild dogs at the beach and my watch broken in half. So today I went to the market.

After finding myself a bright orange watch and some pink rhinestone-adorned flips flops (everything seems to be bedazzled here), I wandered into the jeans department of Marché Sandaga. Mind you, this outside market comprises of an overwhelming amount of merchandise crammed onto tables and stands that line the sides of buildings and overflow into the busy street.

Somehow I thought shopping for jeans here was a good idea.

Started off by seeing a man with a tall stack of jeans. Goodness knows how, where, or from whom they acquire these clothes—everything from hot European brands to Old Navy. Lots of brands from lots of countries = reaaaally interesting time finding your size. Unfortunately I’m not up-to-date on my waist size in Britain, so I had to wing it. I eyeballed the sizes and got a small selection of pants, and finally the vendor conceded to my request to try them on somewhere.

I was instructed to follow him, and he led me about 5 stands down to this little cove behind another table with jeans on it. The table was a little lower than waist high and looked out onto the busy street, traffic slowly rolling past, people walking by every second, scanning the merchandise on the table. There were racks with t-shirts hanging on either side behind the table, probably both about 6 feet high. And this was my changing room. Thank goodness I wore a skirt today; otherwise the people on the street would’ve gotten a REAL show. Even so, privacy and modesty were both pretty short in stock at this joint.

And just to put some real icing on the cake, I was shopping for skinny jeans nonetheless. If you’ve never had the experience of trying them on—oh boy. They’re usually stretchy, quite snug, and almost impossible to get on at all…forget even trying to do it gracefully. It was like putting on jean tights. Really fun to do in a public area.

Just to be sure you get the full picture, there were people watching from behind on the street, not to mention the crowd of other vendors--all men--that had congregated to both see if the jeans fit, and if not, offer their own product as an alternative.

As it turns out, I’m not too good at eyeballing my size in jeans… so the whole peanut gallery that assembled watched me do the hip-wiggle-and-hike to try to get these darn pants up. After much effort and little success, they started making “jayfondae” comments (see Some Funnies blog post… but basically saying my butt is too big/I’m too fat). Always a good confidence booster when pants shopping.

Finally, I managed to get these pants up to my waist, but it was very clear those babes were not going to fit. Or rather, they fit fine—nice and snug—as long as the zipper was splayed wide open with the buttons practically on different sides of my body. Perfect.

I broke the bad news to my friend—they weren’t going to fit. This man was on a mission, though. He was going to make these bad boys fit. I think I fully realized his determination for the first time when he bent down and actually tried to zip my pants shut for me—“Wait, let me just show you—they fit!” he says.

Whoa buddy. Pretty sure we’ve known each other maybe ten minutes. I don’t think we’re at that level of friendship yet where I’m going to let you button my pants for me, thanks. Very thoughtful of you, though. Geez.

When he finally ceded victory, he told me, “It’s just because your thighs are too big. Buy em now, lose ten kilos and they’ll fit perfectly.” Man, they really know how to sell it to you here! The customer service—I tell ya!

At long last I actually found some pants that fit and was even able to check myself out in the mirror in the nearby electronics shop. Gold. Bargained down to less than half of the original price he asked me, made my purchase and came home happy and exhausted.

Ran upstairs to show my 18-year old sister my new pants… and found out I still paid more than twice as much as I should’ve. And managed to lose much of dignity in the process.

You just can’t win.

Back from the Boonies

This past week all the CIEEers were scattered throughout the various regions in Senegal to get a taste of “rural life” for a couple days. Three other girls and I lucked out big time and were placed in Joal. There we stayed… well, it’s actually really hard to fully describe where we were in one sentence.

Let’s see…

Once upon a time, a black American woman and a Senegalese man met in Cote d’Ivoire at an art exhibition. Different backgrounds and languages, but a mutual passion for art—they found love in each other and decided to make a life together. They now live with their three children in tents pitched on the floor of a giant one-room warehouse plopped beside the highway somewhere between Mbor and Joal, Senegal. Bright colors and dreams without means seem to spin their lives. They stretch their creative juices in everything from ceramic workshops with local female artists to international art exhibits to homeschooling their children. Ultimately, their vision is finding a means for wholesome development—that is development that is good for all parts and members of the community—through creative expression and innovation.

That’s where I stayed.

We were told we’d be working on various projects during our week stay at this place. But for whatever reason, we didn’t actually do any work in the morning. We’d wake up to a leisurely breakfast of coffee, tea, toasted bread with jam and homemade honey (I actually found a real, though non-living, bee in it!) and occasionally hot porridge called fondae to top it off.

After being fed and watered, we usually lounged around and spent a great deal of time lending an ear to our host artists’ perspectives on development, the effects of slavery on the African Diaspora today, natural childbirth, having a mixed-culture marriage, and the benefits of using medicinal plants over prescribed medication.

Whew.

All that knowledge-soaking just about did us in, so we’d break for lunch and continue to lounge about and discuss over tea and mangoes.

Finally around 4pm we usually got on our horses and decided to do something. It felt like a real life Little House on the Prairie most days—at least during those maybe three hours of working daylight we had left after our strenuous hours of sitting, eating, and talking.

We did everything you might expect one to do on a “rural visit”… drew water from the well, sewed curtains by hand with a simple needle and thread, whitewashed the walls of a small school room for the children, helped cut the vegetables for dinner and washed the dishes by hand in big basins afterwards.

One of the activity descriptions listed on our rural visit informational sheet was “prepare for ceramics workshop.” Naturally I thought this might involve setting up some benches, getting the clay out into distributable lumps… something pretty basic.

We found out later in the week that the ceramics workshop would be a special occasion because for the first time, instead of using a kiln, they were going to fire the pieces the old fashioned way—digging a hole in the ground, placing the ceramic pieces inside and filling in around them with hay and cow pies, then burning the whole ensemble over night.

Neat!

Guess who got to collect the cow pies?

Before I even realized what was happening, I found myself bouncing down the highway among speeding cars on a two-wheeled, donkey-driven wooden wagon, nestled in between two thirty-year old men: a Wolof-speaking Senegalese man named Sally and a French-speaking (though thick-accented) Ivory Coast man named Gilbert. Hired help, my partners in crime.

There we were, cruising down the road until Sally suddenly pulled a quick right and we veered off the road, plunging down into this dirt ditch. No worries, all part of the plan. For we came up out of the ditch, and there it was, glistening in the rosy sunset: the field of dung. Poop as far as the eye could see. What a goldmine.

The three of us hopped out and immediately started gathering and stashing the treasures in our wagon, cow pies flying through the air from every which direction. Sy-Sy (the donkey… “trouble-maker” in Wolof) stood watch. Sally communicated to me through facial expressions alone which pies were the keepers. I quickly learned the wet ones weren’t the ones we wanted, which I was relieved to discover. Still, there were a few sneakers that appeared to be dry, but once in my bare hands, proved very clearly to be fresh out of the oven. Those ones were fun surprises.

After about twenty minutes of scavenging, we decided to pack it up, and we rode triumphantly back home atop our pile of prize-winning pies.

We actually ended up coming back for round two with another CIEEer and two of the kids. By that time I was pro status, though. No poop-shy for me!

The ceramic pieces ended up turning out well and we all felt a great sense of accomplishment, certainly a job well-done. Rah-rah, way to go team. But even despite all the excitement of our hunt, I was pretty happy to head back to Dakar at the end of the week.

I think I’ll just stick to picking up mangoes from the local fruit stands from now on.

Bite Me

Lately I’ve become very wary of the consequences of eating on the go in Senegal.

Mornings when I actually have the time, I prefer to sit and mull over my bread and jam with the friendly Senegalese businessmen who have picked our family boutique as their regular ndekki (breakfast) spot. They’re quite a pleasant bunch and always enthusiastically jump at the chance to expand my Wolof vocabulary.

But if by some rare chance I’m slow to drag myself out of bed and can’t afford the time for a lingering morning chat, I’m forced to commit a major Senegalese faux-pas: walking (even standing) and eating at the same time. In my three months here, I think I’ve seen someone else do it once.

I’ve given some good thought to this phenomenon, and I think I’ve come up with some pretty valid explanations. Meals in Senegal are a major community time with everyone gathered around the bowl. The bulk serving size dish also makes the food harder to take along wherever you might be headed. The meals take such a long time and so much work to prepare—they shouldn’t be hurried or rushed through, but enjoyed. There’s very little hurry here, “on time” is more of a fluid concept, so there’s always time to sit and eat.

Well, as much as I’d like to say I always adapt and follow cultural norms in my time here, some mornings I just have to resign myself to being an American in Senegal. And Americans eat on the go.

Yes, I sometimes eat on my walk to school. The shame!

Despite the shame, I have actually found a bigger downside to eating en route: sharing. I try to cut myself a bigger chunk of bread those days because little children who beg will inevitably come up and ask me for some of my breakfast. I never give them money, but I can’t seem to justify holding a dispensable piece of food in my hands and keeping it all to myself when I see their open hands and empty tins. So they get some, too.

This afternoon on the walk home from my internship, after passing the infinite number of food vendors on the street before lunch, I finally caved and coughed up 25CFA (about a nickel) for a bag of my favorite sugar roasted peanuts. So delish! But I should have known better than to eat them right away, for soon thereafter I was met with an unusual amount of with pouty eyes and out-stretched palms.

But this afternoon I was confronted with a rather strange configuration of beggars—most of them were middle-aged women. These weren’t the typical middle-aged female beggars of Dakar who sit on the side of the road covered in children and call out for generosity. No, these women were straightforward, coming right up to me and begging. Very out of character based on my previous experience in Dakar.

The only problem was… I wasn’t totally clear on what they wanted, money or food. On one occasion, a much older woman approached me and held out her palm. I’m used to treating older folks here with a lot of respect, shaking their hand with both of my hands and curtseying. I felt very out of place, uncomfortable being the power-holder in this situation. I didn't know how to react, it was such a conflicting situation--we're told to respect our elders, but also politely shrug off beggars. Who holds the trump card here?

When this woman held out her palm, my first instinct was to revert to my old standby policy of giving food, not francs. Then I thought about it for a second and realized how insulting it would be to just throw the old lady a peanut! But then who knows…heck, maybe she did just want a peanut?

Such a dilemma. Hard to know. I ended up not offering either. Hoping I didn't offend. Unlikely.