The End

Well, tomorrow is it.

My brother told me today he's going to pray for me that in the next 24 hours I lose my passport and my skin turns black so I can stay in Senegal forever.

Inshallah.

Wrapping Up

Had my final run to the tailor this past week. You’d be surprised (or not at all) at the percentage of class time I spend daydreaming about what I’m going to do next with my most recently-purchased batch of fabric. This last time I finally decided on four dresses, a skirt, and a shirt—so nervous and hopeful they would turn out! Our local tailor, Ousmane, can be kind of hit or miss. Describing intricate dresses in French and Wolof, something is bound to get lost in translation. So at times it can be a pretty big shot in the dark—especially since we’re having non-traditional Senegalese clothes made.

Still, having clothes made here has been really fun, very cheap, and quite addicting! And if something doesn’t turn out right, I can just take it back to Ousmane and he’ll work with it until it’s good. The last dress took 5 attempts. Mostly worth it in the end :) But comparing tailor horror stories has definitely become a favorite pastime among my friends. The best ones come from people who live in the Ouakam neighborhood because their tailor only speaks Wolof. HA! He’s produced some real gems.

But when I went back to Ousmane this time, it was straight up Senegalese magic. Not only did he produce what I wanted, but he added little flourishes and details that improved on the original design I gave him… and all but one dress fit perfectly! Even that mishap was pretty easily remedied, and as I sat and waited for Ousmane to fix it up, “Chariots of Fire” started playing on the radio… amazing new dresses, the ultimate victory music, total elation. Magical.

Ha.

So we’re in the midst of finals. I have my Wolof final on Monday morning, and other than that it’s mostly final papers. Quite a few of them, actually, and mostly all in French. Haven’t done any homework this weekend yet because I’ve been focusing on social studies in the Senegalese night clubs… Thursday, Friday, and going for the hat trick tonight. That’s pretty standard though, even for the States—that’s what Sunday is for—homework. It’ll get done, choloo (no worries).

I was organizing my rubrics though for the many papers I have to write (so at least it’s organized and prepared procrastination) and was surprised to find one assignment sheet missing. I gave it some good thought and realized finally… I’m pretty sure I used it as a napkin to eat a mango on in class. That’s when you know you have your priorities straight.

Geez.

Thursday during our lunch break I went with two of my good girl friends down to the beach to do some yoga. You may have just said to yourself, “I didn’t know Lindsay does yoga!?” Ha, well you’re right. I don’t. The girls I did it with are real pro, too. I would’ve loved a video tape of me frantically trying to follow their smooth movements. Many a time my “airplane” pose ended in flailing arms and pitching over in the sand while they were gracefully poised and frozen in position. Still, I enjoyed the whole “yoga looking out over the ocean” deal. It’s crazy seeing that Big Blue with no land in sight and knowing I’m gonna cross that big guy in a week!

Saying goodbye is not too much in the forefront of my thoughts right now. I’m really determined to be in Europe next summer/year hopefully teaching in France after Witt (or backpacking! A ton of people on my program are doing that this summer and I’ve been inspired! Time to start saving!)… and it’d be so easy to book a flight through Dakar and just hang out for a week or whatever on my way over. It’s in the perfect location for that, not out of the way at all! I really am dead set on it.

No way could I live in Dakar long term—I need winter. But there are so many people I care so much about here, and I am so in love with the ambiance, the culture, the city, the way of life here…I can’t imagine not coming back. It makes saying goodbye easier because I know I will see these people again. Inshallah. And I’ll happily take a “see you later” over a “goodbye” any day.

Note Taking

The Latest:

Me + CIEE to the Sine Saloum Islands for one final hurrah weekend together before we all part ways in T-minus 2 weeks. These islands are located about 3 hours south of Dakar in the middle of a giant salty river that feeds into the ocean.

We travelled:

At first by bus. Originally we were told to BE SURE to eat an early lunch on Friday and be at school by 2:15pm because we were leaving at 2:30pm sharp. I started the 20-minute walk to school at approximately 2:13pm and foolishly spent money on a taxi thinking I’d be late and worse—get left behind! Even after 3.5 months here, I still haven’t learned. For at approximately 3:20pm, our program directors finally rolled onto campus. No apologies, just explanations that they “had a late lunch.”

Next, by boat. We learned on the drive over we were actually staying on an island that was about a 15-minute pirogue (these massive brightly-painted canoes) ride away from mainland. Unfortunately our untimely departure synced perfectly with first Dakar rush hour, and then second the mainland village’s power outage, so we were left splashing and hurdling into pirogues, baggage in tow, in the pitch black. A few students were slightly uneasy about what turned out to be a 35-minute pirogue ride through the dark and rushing water with no life jackets on board (hard to imagine why?), but we all finally made it to our island, no casualties. Alxamdulilay.

For fun, we:

Attended a traditional Senegalese wrestling match…beginning around midnight after a late dinner and our long day of travel. The gathering of minimally-clothed Senegalese men parading around a circle to the beats of some local drumming and chanting was a bit overwhelming and repetitive after the first hour, but then the wrestling finally commenced and some of us were able to shake off our head-bobbing and droopy eyelids. A few of us toubabs were even given the opportunity to wrestle each other as a kind of “half-time show” before the big semi-final and championship rounds. That certainly roused our spirits and we were able to last the rest of the night until our long moonlit walk back to our bungalows. And no, I did not wrestle.

Decided to get naked. With only two weeks to go and streaking Senegal still unchecked on my To Do list, I was starting to get a little anxious. So given our mostly-rural surroundings, my roommates and I decided to go for a quick jaunt around our campement and then for a surprisingly warm (skinny) dip in the river. Upon arrival at the waterfront, we found half of our program had had the same idea! And after only some slight hesitation, we made our grand entrance down the dock stairs and into the water to join them. Splashed around a bit at a safe distance from each other, then scampered back to bed. With jammies.

Took tours by land and sea. In the morning, we willingly embarked in the White People Parade as we took a fleet of horse-drawn carts through the multiple island villages, looking at the mosques, churches, schools, and incredible trees along the way. In the evening, we reassembled in our friends, the pirogues, to ride through the mangroves and have a wide array of tropical wetland birds pointed out to us.

Had a bonfire. The last night we gathered around the flames for a sing-a-long of some African tunes led by one of our students from Kenya. Beautiful. But somehow that evolved into my friend Jonah and myself racking our brains for stupid group games we’ve played as camp counselors. We managed to coerce many of our peers to join in on Bunny Bunny, Snort, Screaming Toes, and the Ninja Game. Hard to beat good times like these.

We talked:

A lot about our upcoming departure. With only one real weekend left for most of us, we milled over how unbelievably fast this semester has gone but how wonderful it’s been. It’s hard to wrap our minds around being back in the States in a matter of days now. Of course there are things we’re all looking forward to, but ultimately the consensus (at least among my group of friends) is “Oh wow, this is gonna be rough.” So many good friends, both Senegalese and American—we’ve been together for almost 4 months and then one day soon everyone we’ve spent our days living and learning with will go…and just like that, none of us will be together anymore. Back to the people we love who have no real idea of the world we’ve been living in for the past semester. I’ve been weirdly anxious the past two weeks and I’m sure it will continue… sad to leave, but kind of excited to go home, but scared of what it will be like, but actually really wanting to stay here longer—I’ve reached a new level of inner-conflict I’ve never experienced before. It’s a lot.

We now have:

Massive finals and re-entry seminars ahead of us. Relaxing was a little hard to do this weekend for long before our minds began to wander to those 2 finals we have tomorrow, and the 4 other papers still to write before we leave. Not to mention gifts to get for our families and friends at home, final clothing runs to the tailor, quality time spent with people here, last bites of our favorite delicacies, etc, etc.

Essentially, me for the next two weeks: chicken with her head cut off.

But safe to say, I think a nice weekend and fun time was had by all.

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.

Some Funnies

Random tidbits... no real theme on this one, just some goofy recent happenings that I feel deserve some sharing:

Played soccer for the first time with my brother and friends on Wednesday. I've protested for two months on the sidelines but finally caved and joined them on the field. The best thing I have to say about my game is that now my brother and friends actually believe me when I tell them I can't play soccer. There are definitely levels of competency: either you're really good (mad ball handling skills, really fast), not great but not bad (you can kick and receive the ball, get a good hustle now and then), or just straight up bad (me). My favorite was my one break away when I thought I was cruising down the field, really huffing it...until a guy from the other team casually breezed up to me and just tapped the ball out of my control. Taking candy from a baby. No worries, though. I felt a lot better when my brother told me everytime he saw me on the field he just laughed. They're really an uplifting bunch.

Lunch at my internship at the Ecole Bilingue has been stellar minus one little hiccup last week. Diced hotdogs, beets, onions, potatoes... much like a heaping pile of curiously pink potato salad, if you will. Cold. And get this--you had to add your own mayonaise. As if it was salad dressing to slather over everything. I had to pass on that one. Vom.

It happened. My sister finally told me the other day I've gained weight (which by Senegalese standards is a good thing for women, in moderation of course). When I asked her if it was just in my face or maybe in my hips she reassured me, "No, just everywhere." I proceeded to compare jaayfondes (jie fon dayz) with my sister and maid. For those who don't know (which is probably all of you), jaayfonde is the Wolof version of badunkadunk... aka, having a jaayfonde literally means having a butt so big you can serve porridge out of/off of it. We concluded that although mine has a larger surface area, my sister's has more volume. Really nice family bonding moment.

We learned in school the other day the only word that is the same in both English and Wolof: poop.

My laundry here is pretty unpredictable in terms of when it gets picked up, when I'll get it back, whether it will come back with bleach stains, and whether it will come back at all. All that to say, I'm a little wary of which articles I surrender to the non-French-or-English speaking laundry lady. As a result of this distrust, I realized today that I haven't washed a pair of my jeans in about three months. Whoops.

At supper the other night my mom served us all fried egg rolls that were absolutely oozing with oil. Having a bit of saturated fat overload, I went to the kitchen and opted for some bread and jam instead--I thought a healthier choice...sama yaay seemed to think differently. My mom proceeded to follow me to the fridge and warned me that I "risked gaining weight" if I ate that bread. Nevermind the fried oil-laden egg rolls we just had, but stay away from that bread!! We seem to have different understandings of healthy eating habits.

I had a dream the other night that I was back in Minnesota and I started absolutely bawling because EVERYONE was pole hiking around (dryland training for nordic skiing) and I was sad to see only quiet Scandanavian Lutherans and and no cultural diversity. Prophetic, perhaps? (PS for all you Minnesotan readers, you might appreciate this as well: our university here is hosting International Day where everyone is supposed to share a part of their culture with the rest of the student body... the other midwesterners and I are trying to find ingredients to make a tater tot hot dish HA oh ya sure ya betcha!)

Think that's all for now, kids. I hope this entry won't deter you from reading future posts :) I'll work on washing my pants, I promise.

Religion + Development = ?

Friday afternoon post-internship I decided to meet up with samay xarit (my friends) at the HLM market--the place you go in Dakar when you need to buy...well, anything you could ever need. And most times you come out with many other things you really don't need. Kind of like the Target of Senegal. Slightly different atmosphere, though.

Anyway, the truly significant detail of this story is not so much where we went but when we went. The fact that we are in a country whose population is over 90% Muslim and all men are required to attend afternoon prayers at a mosque on Fridays... well...it must have just slipped our minds.

Coming home for lunch most weeks I'd actually witnessed the hordes of men flooding the streets in their "Sunday Best" (or rather Friday Best) toting prayer rugs and beads, but never before had I seen them in action talking to the Big Man Upstairs. Well, that changed on my way to HLM.

I can easily say it was this most incredible taxi ride of my life. Several blocks before coming up on one of the local mosques, I began seeing people lined up in perfectly neat rows on the sidewalk, their prayer rugs laid out in front of them. As we got closer to the mosque (and this one wasn't even that big) we could see literally hundreds of men lined up row after row on any free ground space they could find. Right as we passed through, the call to prayer rang out through the mosque's loud speaker, and at once, this sea of heads was suddenly bowed to the ground.

The cultural sensitivity and curiousity in me had an epic battle over whether to take a picture, but the sensitivity won out in the end. It was the kind of moment that was better spent experiencing than trying to capture, anyway...though I suppose that might be true of most moments.

The roads and intersections beyond the mosque were scattered with abandoned taxis and car rapides...it was almost ghosttown-like. It was as if everyone had been going about their day and all of a sudden dropped everything they were doing to pray, cut off mid-sentence. Frankly, I think that kind of is what happened. Time seems to stop come Friday afternoon prayer time. Coming from the Melting Pot, it was incredible to see that religious solidarity in such a metropolitan setting.

Interestingly enough, we just had a speaker at school talk to us about how religion is one of the major obstacles standing in the way of Senegal's development. She talked about the danger of crediting everything to "God's will"... if a building structure fails, a doctor makes a fatal mistake with a patient, a politician makes a controversial decision--God's will. Obviously this explanation is not used clear across the nation, but there is a big enough concentration of this mentality to cause concern among critics.

My econ class has discussed how Africa has been developed by Western standards and by that measure, it's been a failure. The continent needs to change its definition of development to fit African culture and society. For me, it's just hard to imagine what that would look like hand-in-hand with such strong religious convictions. That is not to say it's impossible to live a faith-based life and be developed... it would just look different from what we now know as development.

I feel like our Western economically developed societies place high value on money, time, advancement of the individual, survival of the fittest...and it's hard to picture Senegal with that face of development. That just seems so far, so opposite from what their society is now.

Even after mulling over this for a couple months, it's still hard to know what to think...or what to propose as a better solution.

p.s. I keep spelling development with two Ps because that's how it's spelled in French and I keep getting the two mixed up...AH!

Swingset

Today is officially the halfway mark of my semester in Senegal. I left January 16th and will be returning May 16th… so March 16th—this is it! Recently I realized that by the time I make it back to the States I will have spent 5 out of the past 12 months living in Africa. I like that.

With summer job plans beginning to settle in, there’s been lots of talk lately among the American students of going home and what that will be like. Common concerns include:

Actually having to do work and be on time to things.
As women, we’ll actually have to work for attention from the opposite sex for a change.
We won’t be able to make smart comments in English in front of people because they’ll actually know what we’re saying.
We’ll actually have to have manners at the dinner table.
We’ll actually HAVE a dinner table.

But to be perfectly honest, any time the subject comes up, I find the quickest way possible to change it because it’s something I just don’t like to think about. I have had my occasional bouts of homesickness (more so familysickness), but those are usually fairly easily cured. Mostly, I’m just trying to soak everything here up while I still can.

My little sister Rose and I have made a habit of going to watch my brother Issa and Pap (dad) play soccer on Friday nights. The game starts right around sunset at a field overlooking the ocean (also just across the road from my school). There’s a playground there where Rose and I sometimes like to take swing breaks from watching the game.



Last week I brought my camera and we took some pictures of our little play date. I love just about any swing to begin with, but these swings are particularly incredible because if you swing high enough, you can just see over the bushes and out into the vast blue ocean shimmering under the sunset. When you reach that highest point in the air, the swing lingers a bit, and for a moment you’re suspended in that unbelievable beauty.

Of course, gravity eventually pulls you back, but the promise of even a glimpse of that wonderful view keeps you pumping your legs to return to that one spot.

That’s Senegal to me. I know I’ll eventually be pulled back to the reality of my hustle-and-bustle American life, but for now, I’m enjoying being suspended in the beauty of it all… and when my semester here is all said and done, I know I will continue to stretch to find ways to return to Africa.

It’s too wonderful a place to be away from for long.

Back from Hiatus

As most everyone else is heading off to their week of spring break, I've just returned from mine. I, along with 5 others, made the trek through bumpy backroads and awful heat to the South-Eastern corner of Senegal. Of the six of us travellers, there were 3 Wisconsinites and 1 Minnesotan, so the mid-western accents were RAGING all week. Awesome.

We arranged for a sept-place (basically a volkswagon grocery getter) to drive us to Tambacounda and then to Kedougou. When our driver rolled up Friday night 11:30pm we quickly realized it was not the driver we hired nor the comfy-looking car we spent an hour bargaining for...but it was headed our direction, so we piled in!

The drive down felt like being in a real life video game dodging potholes left and right. Before his own experience headed south, our French teacher was cautioned there were "bird nest" potholes along the road. But after seeing and feeling them for himself, he preferred to classify them as "elephant nest" potholes. I'd say his is an accurate interpretation. Yet somehow between the wild car ride, new level of discomfort in the deteriorating back seat, and Senegalese music blaring through the 7-hour drive through the night, I couldn't keep the big smile off my face. Again, somehow... this is EXACTLY how I wanted to be spending my spring break.

Our trip was marked by a series of rather fortunate events. While bumming around the market in Kedougou we happened upon one of my friend's college buddies (ALSO a Minnesotan! ...or at least went to school there) who is sixth months into her locally-stationed Peace Corps service.

Her random decision to bike through town led to our afternoon spent bumming around a local pool with a whole host of other Peace Corps volunteers, eating delicious warthog sandwiches (not a code word--literally, Pumba between bread) and listening to first-hand accounts of these Americans dropped into rural Africa for a couple years. We later spent the night (free!) at their headquarters cozily cuddled up three to a mosquito-net-adorned full-size bed... but only after a (I kid you not) non-stop 5 hour sing-a-long.

One of the guys on our trip brought his mandolin, a couple PCVs had their guitars...add an African drum, harmonica, wireless internet to look up chords and an infinite playlist of song requests, and that's how we found ourselves belting out tunes from 10 at night to 3 in the morning. Beatles were a crowd favorite. The boys actually extended their jam session an extra hour, but seriously regretted that decision three hours later when the 7am alarm went off for our full day of hiking.

The next few days were spent hiking along rivers, up mountains and through forests/jungles. So many times we stopped to pinch ourselves--"I can't believe this. We're hiking in Africa! Wait. Where ARE we?" The scenary was absolutely breathtaking. As was the heat. 108 degrees. In the shade. Luckily our guide had sense enough to realize this was not exactly ideal physical exertion weather, so we made a habit of hiking in the morn and eve, and otherwise spending most of the afternoon swimming and bathing in various waterfalls in Dande, Dindefelo and Segou. Fabulous sites, wonderful company.

The sweat factor was outrageous, though. Even though we bucket showered daily, we managed to roll into our campements (hostels) every night plastered in sweat and mango juice, caked in dirt and dust, straight up balls of nasty-ness. I have never been so hot and dirty for such an extended period of time (you can literally see the spring break section of my journal because there is a noticeable seam of dirt between the otherwise white stacked pages).

I may have gotten a little irritable most nights come 8pm. Too much heat! I now realize I am a true Minnesotan: gotta have my cold fix or I'm a crabbypants. Still, the experience was most definitely worth the discomfort.

Favorite moments also include a passionate group rendition of Titanic's "My Heart Will Go On" in the jeep ride between destinations, eating unhealthy amounts of ripe mangoes freshly picked from the trees, taking my first hot shower in almost 2 months at our first hotel, coming up with a long list of "famous last words" followed by hysterical laughter at the thought of possible contexts (mad with the heat? possibly...), tasting the local delicacy known as "funion" but being slightly disappointed at discovering something other than our fondly-known onion flavored chips, and finally, finding a live chicken under our bed one night.

The "direct" bus ride from Kedougou back to Dakar was a humbling end to our fun adventure of a week. At half the price of a sept-place, we got what we paid for. Cramped seats plus lovely neighbors who only spoke Wolof and insisted on shooting me glares with angry-sounding rants of which all I could understand was "tank! tank!" (legs)... I don't think they had much compassion for the long-legged when it came to sacrificing their own back discomfort.

In all fairness, the ride really wouldn't have been all bad if there had been air conditionning, it hadn't taken 15 hours, and we hadn't stopped 24 times (yes, I counted). Actually, I kept a log of all the times we stopped based on the chrono setting on my stopwatch. Here's a brief sampling from the first two hours of our trip:

two stops before this
0:15:30 stop
0:17:00 - 0:20:45 stop
0:29:02 senegalese music starts blasting
0:30:33 we get sprayed down with fabreeze
0:32:15 - 0:32:54 stop
0:48:18 - 0:51:16 stop, bathroom break
1:04:40 - 1:09:50 stop, water break
1:54:48 - 2:15:00 stop, 5pm prayer break

My other favorite was when someone decided to bring a cardboard box full of live chickens on board to join the fun. Just chilling in the aisle. Only you, Senegal.

Quite the trip. Spring Break 2010--definitely one for the books.

Different Views

Last night I had the hardest but best conversation yet of my time in Senegal.

In Senegal, homosexuality is ...

Unacceptable. Shameful. Sacrileges. Disgusting. Not natural. Not right.

Just recently there was a group of young men in Senegal who were beaten and imprisoned for staying in a hotel and being accused of "performing homosexual acts."

Upon our arrival here, we were warned--avoid the subject, and if you are homosexual, DO NOT admit to it, for it could be a serious danger to your safety and/or life.

It's no exaggeration to say Senegal is a truly homophobic state.

One of my Senegalese friends and I have been talking a lot recently--exchanging thoughts on cultural differences, personal beliefs, values, etc. In our few conversations, he's talked a lot about the universal bond between mankind, how he sees no difference between black and white--we're all just people. So taking him for a pretty widely accepting person, I felt disappointed but not surprised when I asked him about his views on homosexuality.

My friend explained to me that though he doesn't hate homosexuals, he is definitely not a fan. He said it's against his religion (Islam), doesn't think it's right, and just seems to want to avoid homosexuals if at all possible (an extremely tame and peaceful perspective compared to some others I've heard in talking with Senegalese students).

Again, knowing him to be such a compassionate person, it really hurt me to hear he didn't extend his love and acceptance of mankind to include homosexuals.

I shared my own personal experience in the United States having friends of all ages who are homosexual and how difficult it is to come to Senegal and be met with such hatred for some of my dearest loved ones. To turn the tables, I asked him to imagine what it'd be like for him to come to the United States and have people express hatred and desire for physical violence toward black people, knowing his closest friends and family fall under that category.

It'd be hard to understand. Why such animosity toward those you care about and know to be good people?

The whole conversation was a really respectful exchange, and we both listened and tried to understand the other's perspecitve. So thankful for that.

At the end of the conversation he actually thanked me for teaching him something new. In his 25 years of living, he said he has not once met a single person who said they accepted homosexuality. He has ALWAYS been taught that it's wrong, and he has never (to his knowledge) come into contact with a person who is homosexual, and thus has no personal experience with which to challenge what he has always known as truth.

Given those circumstances... how could you think differently?

It was helpful for me to understand some of the logistics of where this stigma stems from. Still, it's a hard pill to swallow.

C'est comme ca

For the most part, Senegal has been really good for my temper. I've noticed especially as of late that things I would normally get really mad about I've begun shrugging off as no big deal. En francais, they say "C'est comme ca." That's how it is. I say that a lot here. For example:

In the morning when I go to take a shower and the water randomly turns off mid-shampooing... I usually just wait a couple minutes and it eventually comes back on

Also in the morning when I go to take a shower and wait for the water to get warm before remembering there actually is no hot water in our house

Or when my laundry dissapears for up to a week at a time and I find myself "toweling" off with my pajama pants

And today when we took a taxi back to school from downtown and randomly got a flat tire in the middle of a busy round-about during rush hour

...c'est comme ca!

Although, I haven't gotten over scoffing at the poor customer service at roadside sandwhich shops as the cashier chats away on her cell phone and has no real regard for who was "in line" first. For the most part, they don't really do lines here--whoever shoves their way to the counter first gets helped first.

Is this what they call culture shock?

Oh Senegal. You're too funny.

Classy

Believe it or not, I do actually go to school here. Homework doesn't happen that often and teachers can sometime be half an hour late to class or go half an hour over the alotted 1 hour 45 minute time slot. Morals of the story: On time is early here. Senegalese love to talk.

I'm taking Economic Development (in French) and that's been discussing how Africa has been/is being developed, why it's not working so well, and what it should look like instead. Super interesting material, and so far my lack of experience in econ hasn't been a strike against me.

French class is a trip because our teacher is this short but punchy little man, very animated... we were doing an exercise in class and I asked for clarification on a vocab word, what "raproche" means. As soon as I asked, he got right up in my face and started insulting me and telling me I'm a bad person. I just stared at him totally bewildered and kind of hurt--and then I realized. Raproche: to confront, insult someone. Great teach-by-example moment.

Fatou teaches our Wolof class and she's the sweetest woman, so patient, and the cutest little smile. There are only 6 of us in the class and we do a lot of practicing Wolof by saying sentences about where we're from, who is in our family, etc... so we've all gotten to know each other really well through that! Lots of laughs in that class as we stumble through learning the language. But it must be working because I've gotten to the point where I can sometimes recognize what people say to me in passing on the street, but the translation doesn't fully register til I'm about 15 feet away--too late to respond. It's coming.

We have a Senegalese Culture class which is sometimes interesting. The other day we took a field trip to an artist's village and got to see a whole bunch of different Senegalese artists and talk to them/see their work in own their creation spaces--LOVED, of course.

I'm also taking a seminar that meets once a week that focuses on living and learning in a different culture. It's basically a structured setting to process all we're experiencing here. One of our long-term assignments is to have a "langugage/culture partner" (mine is my 17-year old sister) and we are periodically assigned interview questions or conversation topics to discuss with them, then later reflect on in writing. Recently we talked about words of advice our parents gave us growing up and what/who we were named after, what significance that holds--so cool! It's great having a structure for those kind of encounters because it's something I want to have, but don't know that I would necessarily do on my own. Really cool class.

Last is my internship class. We meet once a week to discuss current events in Senegal and gain an understanding of how society works here. Then we have all day Friday (since regular classes are Monday - Thursday) to go to our internships. I'm working at L'Ecole Bilingue (the bilingual school, french-english--though there are many others with different languages in Dakar).

Friday was my first day and I was placed in the Special Needs class (HA I just proofread and laughed out loud! To clarify: as a teacher, not a student). There's a teacher and another assistant besides me, plus seven students ages 6-9 years. I would characterize the kids in the class more as quirky than learning disabled (though I suppose that's how all "special needs" kids ought to be characterized). Some have been abused, others were born prematurely so their brains just work a little slower--as the principal said, they all have their own story.

The goal of this class is to create a safe, supportive learning environment where these kids can go at their own pace and learn social rules, what's acceptable behavior... and eventually get reintegrated into regular classrooms. In fact, the one girl in the class just got news on Friday that she will be transferring back to a regular classroom because she's shown so much improvement. Her look of excitement and total pride was the dearest thing, so cool to see.

We all sit in chairs in a circle and have class that way. We speak French, but a couple students occassionally like to try out their English on me, too. The environment is incredibly encouraging, very uplifting with lots of affirmations all the time. Kids are so the same all around the world though--they just love poking each other and fidgeting and just being total twerps. So at the same time, it's a pretty funny contrast because the students have behavioral issues they need to straighten out, so at the end of the lesson, the teacher goes through and lists what everyone did wrong during the lesson and why it was unacceptable. I can tell already the teacher is fabulous though, really great with kids, so that will be so neat to work with and learn from.

As it happened, Friday was Madagascar Day (no, not the movie). Within the elementary school there are 33 different nationalities (so cool!) so once a month the school dedicates a day to celebrating one of those countries (again, so cool!). Everyone wore the colors of Madagascar's flag and the students from Madagascar came to school in their traditional dress and toured around the different classrooms, sharing about their food, outfits, and culture. We all got to sample some local food (fried banana something--delish!) and saw an exhibit with some of their language, handmade crafts for sale (yes, I purchased), and pictures of the landscape, animals and people. The entire school has such a bright, positive feel to it--I'm really excited for the time I'll get to spend there!

Not sure if you can tell, but I absolutely LOVE it here. Study abroad is the neatest experience, what a wonderful opportunity. Big, big fan.

Weekend of Dancing

It all started Thursday night at dinner with Pap. I had a fellow CIEEer over for supper since his prof in the states knows my host dad here. Somewhere in the dinner conversation we discovered we're all closet oldies lovers, and the night somehow ended in the three of us alone in the living room break-ing-it-down to Pap's best collection of disco hits. This was the perfect precurser to my weekend.

Friday was filled with many adventures--including my first hamburger in probably 3+ years! It was a heart attack in a bun, I'm telling you. Beef patty, a whole omlette, ketchup and fries all on one sandwhich. And that was the "hamburger normal"! So good, though. It weighed at least a pound on its own. But that was our dinner pre-dance concert at the Institut Francais in downtown Dakar. We had about two hours of the most INCREDIBLE break dancers--absolutely unreal, it was the coolest thing to watch!--and also unbelieveable traditional Senegalese dancers.

Throughout the concert I put a lot of thought into how one would describe Senegalese dance without actually demonstrating (which I am totally incapable of)... the best I can do is this: imagine you're practicing karate moves on a bed of super hot coals and you have fire ants in your pants. I'm serious. That's kind of what Senegalese dancing looks like. Frantic. What makes it incredible is that it requires a RIDICULOUS amount of energy, stamina, athleticism, speed, coordination, etc. and it looks completely frazzled, but when people dance in groups you can clearly see it's not totally sporadic because they're all doing the same moves! It's really something! YouTube it, really... never seen anything like it. But the "spectacle" was AWESOME!

Finished out the night doing our own dancing at a discoteq (sp?) til the wee hours of the morning, then woke up an hour and a half later (ouch!)to catch a bus to Touba Diallo. We (the whole CIEE program) spent our weekend at the most magical looking beach resort there, just a couple hours south of Dakar (actually only 30 miles away, but traffic doesn't move too fast here). There's a big (ooh I'm going to butcher this spelling..) Rostafarian community there... followers of Bob Marley... so lots of dreads and drumming. We had the opportunity to take Senegalese dance classes there, but I opted for the more relaxed batik-making session (painting designs on a cloth with wax then dyeing it--so neat!).

Several of us girls had an oh-so romantic Valentine's Day eve together, spooning outside under blankets with the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below and the most incredible clear starry night sky above us. We laid there exchanging what bits of sky knowledge we've retained from our respective astronomy college classes, pointing out all the constallations and planets we could identify... thanks, liberal arts gen eds! Made for a nice time. But then off to yet another "spectacle" of Senegalese dancing put on by some of the locals--so much, so intense!

I thought I'd have a break from all the dancing when I got home Sunday, but as it happened, my little cousin Mourat had his birthday party at our house... and all our family does at birthday parties is dance! So once again, we delved in and once again I was reminded of how rhythm-deficient I am. My favorite is that if you're bad at dancing here they say you're "toubab"... also the same word for "white person"... they are synonomous. With good reason. By far the highlight though was when my entire family, little cousins to older aunts, all started doing the "stanky leg" dance when that song came on. LOVE Senegalese family birthday parties!

Also, I think I've figured out why Senegalese rarely eat dessert. It's because at birthday parties they eat enough to carry them over for weeks (maybe months?) til it's time to celebrate a year in someone else's life. Seriously. We each had a plate with at least seven different kinds of cookies, plus super sugary and delicious homemade juice. Then came the two different kinds of birthday cake...not to worry, we got slices of both. And after all that, my sister still wanted to make brownies together for Valentine's Day ... :) Rainchecked that, but we still had dinner an hour later.

Uff da.

Lights Out

Lately I've gotten to enjoy some Dakar power outtages, and they're actually way more fun than the guidebooks and newspaper articles make them out to be.

The past two have come around supper time, so everyone bustling in the kitchen is suddenly left completely in the dark. I've got my routine down of dutifully feeling my way through the stairwell up to room to find my headlamp to "shed some light on the situation." It gives off great light and my mom lets me strap it to her head as she continues mixing and fussing in the dark :)

So after assuring the the family dinner will not be postponed any longer than it's already late 8:30pm set time, I usually go to enjoy the dark with my siblings.

The first time, my sister Mimi took me outside and we went for a walk to look at all the stars. Without the street lights, the sky in Dakar is spectacular! That coupled with the cool evening breeze made for quite an enticing pair. We came back to our house and sat on the front stoop in silence, stealing glances at the sky between watching the cars go by. Eventually the power came back, but we lingered a while to watch the night sky fade into the city lights.

The second time, Rose, Issa, Mimi and I were all huddled in the girls' bedroom, just talking. I asked them if they knew any good ghost stories, but no one volunteered immediately. So I decided I'd give them my scariest tale--unfortunately I think a lot of the suspense was lost in translation, and even my eight year old sister didn't seem too phased. But I think they at least thought it was funny. And really, when have I ever been one to pass up story time?

PS I made banana bread for my family the other day... "pain au banane" and it was a big hit! No measuring cups, but thank goodness my "eye-balling" skills came through. Next attempt will be brownies. Wish me luck!

The Fam

"Don't be constipated, just let loose!"
-Serigne, CIEE Dakar Program Director on getting to know our host families

I've been with my host fam for just over a week now, and I've absolutely loved living with them! They are so dear, thoughtful, always asking how I'm doing, and oh so welcoming. My dad introduced me to one of his friends last night as his "eldest daughter." They constantly remind me that as a member of the family, I don't have to ask permission to join them on errands, sit down to eat, etc.

The family member break down is slightly complicated, but I will try to make it clear. The following are people I live with: Pap and Awa are my dad and mom, and I have two brothers Issa (22) and Habib (20) and two sisters Mimi (17) and Rose (8). My mom's sister Aisha also lives with us along with her kids (my cousins) Mama (20) and Dame (13). Whew. So I've got those down. Once again, they are all so wonderful and friendly and any freetime at home is spent with them talking, watching soccer on TV, listening to music and eating (sometimes all at once).

Then the other day at lunch, Awa mentioned her mother (grandma) lives just north of here in Saint Louis and she sometimes comes to visit. Oh. Neat. That's great!

Well then dinner came around and Aisha told me Grandma was actually coming to visit today and she'd be here "soon." Wow. Okay!

I literally turned around and they were wheeling her into the room to eat with us. And now she's staying for a month. HA. Feeling rather foolish and certain I had missed the announcement of her visit, I asked my brother later on in private, but he shrugged it off casually and said he didn't know she was coming either. Just a kick, I couldn't believe it... no one knew she was coming til that afternoon and now she's staying for a month. Total riot. Her son (my uncle) drove her down and finally realized after his four hour commute and eating dinner that he forgot his suitcase with all his clothes in it at home. My friends, this is Senegal.

I already have such a tender spot for old people, but here in Senegal, I can't even describe to you the joy they bring me! They are just hysterical. Most older folks here in Dakar grew up in rural areas and missed the whole colonial rule French influence bit...

So Grandma sits on her bed at our house in these magnanamous traditional dresses and headscarves, grandchildren silently and respectfully pampering and tending to her every need as she eats our rice-fish-and-sauce meals with her bare hands out of a bowl (the tradtional Senegalese way) all the while barking orders in Wolof for the rest of us to eat more, eat more.

So, so great. I feel older people here are more characterized as elders than grandparents. She just has such a presence. Even though I can't really communicate with her, she's a riot to be around, I just love it. :)

Since her arrival (in the past two days), I have also been introduced to two new uncles and I believe four new cousins. I'm still not quite clear on who they belong to or where they're staying...or for how long...but family members just keep popping up!

With all the visitors we've been having lots of treats, though. One of the uncles brought "cornie" (Wolof) with him--the fruit that grows on palm trees (no, not coconuts). It's the strangest thing, but you cut off the top of the fruit and dig out this slightly sweet but mostly bland jellyfish-like consistancy fruit with a spoon... I'm told there is no word for this fruit in French or English (ha! skeptical...) but it's good!

I've also been getting pineapple jam the last couple days with my regular half baguette for breakfast--so delish! All the students here have admitted how funny it is now that we get SO excited about fruit--simple pleasures!

I have to say though, Senegal is doing nothing for my table manners. Supper usually happens around 8:30pm and everyone congregates in one of the bedrooms (specific to my house only... I think most other families have dining rooms) in front of the TV, we lay out a mat, pull up a little wooden stool to set down this giant round dish of our warm meal, prepared by our maid. We pull up the beds and a couple chairs so everyone sitting around the bowl can dig in! Spoons are optional.

We usually eat some combination of rice, vegetables and meat/fish in a sauce--spicy and so delicious!! Everyone kind of assumes their own pie-shape area of the bowl to eat out of, and you just go from there. Whenever you're done eating, you just get up and leave, and people who are still eating can then redistrubute your leftovers to their sections of the bowl. I usually use a spoon, but sometimes it's just easier to use your hand. The mat laid out below is just one big napkin basically, so you can just spit your bones and meat fat out on the floor.

So basically any rules I've ever learned about proper dining etiquette are out the window. The worst is that we had a special guest over for dinner last night and I had to actually eat off a plate and use a knife for the first time in a couple weeks...I honestly didn't know what to do with myself. My mom told me not to worry though, I could go ahead and just use my hands...so I did :)

Apparently there are a lot of things in Senegal I've never heard of before, and my siblings are appalled to discover my extreme shelteredness...so much so that they've begun to doubt my knowledge of even the most basic things. It's come to the point where anytime they mention something they ask me if I "know" whatever it is they're talking about. The last few nights at dinner I've been asked if I "know" mayonaise and if I "know" penguins. Yes. Yes, I think I have heard of those a time or two before. Thank you. :)

Sometimes Senegalese French accents are a little hard to understand, but normally I can get what people are saying to me. For example, the other day on an excursion to Goree Island I could understand the man perfectly clearly when he came up and asked me in French if I was "enceinte"... pregnant. Sometimes I wish I didn't understand French so well...

Mk. I'm gonna go read the State of the Union address now, try to see what's going on in my country. And are the Olympics on yet? Still can't believe Senegal's not making a bigger deal of their winter events... given that this is their winter (people are getting sick because of "the cold") and it might get down to oh... 65 at night. Maybe. Geez...

Same Stuff, New Style

pictures above of my campus and beach (hopefully they upload!)

Upon my arrival, my host sister wasted no time in hijacking my computer and exploring my small collection of movies. She and my aunt watched the Princess Bride, though I feel any hope of true appreciation of the movie was lost in translation. Since it’s a copied version, we had to do without French subtitles (which really would’ve been helpful) and I acted as head interpreter. My favorite was explaining scenes to them in terms of their own cultural practices and norms (i.e. Indigo Montoya praying to his ancestors for guidance to find the Man in Black using his machete).

My other awesome Princess Bride-related experience came the other day in French class. I realized it halfway through the lesson--I kid you not, my French phonetics teacher has six fingers. Unfortunately, it’s on his left hand… but that’s my right, so I think it still counts :)

Having been warned multiple times we are bound to gain weight here (given the all-starch diet and serious lack of fruit and vegetables), a group of us girls has committed to working out regularly to try to defy this apparently inevitable occurrence. Running along the beach with the sun setting over the ocean and fisherman bringing in their catches for the day in colorfully painted boats certainly does make exercising less of a chore here… but then I saw the Student Activities board. Among the listed opportunities: aerobics class. Clearly, this was not to be missed.

Kate (who happens to be my stepdad’s doctor’s daughter--random) and I went get our work out gear on after class and waited outside the advertised room. When no one came after 15 minutes, we started to lose hope and entertain other work out options, but then we saw this man jog out of another nearby classroom in matching shorts, muscle-T AND coordinating sweat towel around his neck. Bingo.

It ended up being me, Kate, and three other girls from campus (from various parts of West Africa) being led in stretching, step-kicking, jogging in place, and a whole host of other stereotypically ridiculous aerobic exercises by this guy. Let’s be honest—aerobic classes alone are a hoot with all the cheesy countdowns and signature phrases like “now take it back” and “push it! 2-3-4…” Now. Just imagine that in French. I could not BREATHE for the first 10 minutes because I was laughing too hard. His little “Un! Deux! Trois! Et on recule!” to the techno remix playing in the background was just too much. For sure made top 5 highlights of my time here so far, no question. Can’t wait for next class!

Stopped at Elton (gas station) on my way home and found at least six other CIEE students there with shopping lists identical to my own: toilet paper and cookies. TP because, well… most families here just use water out of these little tea pots (now I understand why it’s so taboo in Senegal to use your left hand for eating, social greetings, etc… that hand’s reserved for its own special duty). Cookies because A) dessert doesn’t regularly happen here and B) a lot of families don’t eat dinner until 9:00 or 10:00 at night… no snacks between meals, either. I actually was finally able to locate the family refrigerator only yesterday. Some students still can’t find theirs. So we’ve stocked up on goodies to tie us over. Total gold of a find: vitamin-enriched gluten-free (extra perk?) chocolate teddy graham equivalents! So good.

Of course nothing can compare to the fruit here. I’ve opted for walking to school so I can spend my travel stipend on bananas. So worth it! They are AMAZING here. Hard to describe except by saying they just taste how a real banana should taste. Can’t get enough of them… and just wait til mango season in a couple weeks! Ohhh.

Last tidbit for the day: I have yet to find a garbage can in my house. Truly. I don’t know if there is one. I mean, practically speaking—frustrating. But I asked Awa (my mom) why that is, and she said it’s against their religion to waste (before you judge, it is not against Islam to throw things in the garbage. Rather, it’s important to not be wasteful, and use everything to its full capacity). So everything that can be reused is used. Throwing away food is a rarity because there’s always someone who needs it—be it family members later on, visitors, maids, or kids in the street (common occurrence: kids knocking on doors for leftovers, families happily sharing). And in Senegal they don’t officially recycle per se… everything gets thrown away and taken to landfills, but there people go through and salvage anything that can be reused. In the States, there’s a trash can in every room, every street corner. Of course there are exceptions, but generally from what I’ve seen in Senegal, they’re just not as important to have around.

Rockin the (Senegal) Suburbs

Ben Folds and I have been getting along famously as of late. I’m finding we can really relate. Not sure if he actually had life as a Caucasian in a developing country in mind when he wrote the song, but it’s somehow painfully relevant in this setting.

“Y’all don’t know what it’s like being [fe]male, middle class and white—it gets me real pissed off”

Winding through the sandy streets to school past fruit stands, brightly clothed women, and speeding taxis that seem to have little or no concern for pedestrians is not quite my most restful time of day. Even with our cultural orientation sessions, I still walk the streets wondering hopelessly how many people I manage to offend during my twenty minute trek from Sacre Coeur to Suffolk University.

Passers-by: Make eye contact? Is that rude? Am I doing it for too long? Should I say Salaamalekum or Bonjour, or just nod? Can I smile? Will that come off as an unintentional invitation? Just another easy American? Can’t I just walk and keep my head down? No, that will offend the neighbors…

Then come the kids in the street that beg: Make eye contact? Respond? French or Wolof? No thank you? Nothing? Should I feel more empathy for them—oh, but it’s more complicated than that. In some rural Senegalese villages young boys are sent to the city by their parents to learn the Koran under the supervision of marabouts, local Islamic teachers. But some of these marabouts force their pupils to beg in the streets with the promise of a beating if they don’t make their daily quotas. So there’s always a chance a child holding out his hand to me is from the rural villages, a talibé. Will he get beaten if I don’t give? Is he just another kid on the street?

Hardly time enough to reflect on this in the street, though—there are still more! My favorites: the venders. It’s amazing with how much English they speak they still haven’t learned “no.” Unfortunately I think my skin tone screams “SELL ME THINGS” louder than I will ever be able to protest verbally. “Sistah! My sistah! Come, I make good price for you!”

Thankfully it’s mostly in good humor…they really aren’t too terribly pushy (at least on the street corners…let’s not even TALK about the markets) and you can’t blame a person for trying to make a living. So far I’ve been able to greet-and-go fairly cheerfully, but I’m dreading the morning I wake up crabby and impatient. I know it will happen; it’s only a matter of time. I already feel sorry for anyone who tries to sell me something that day.

Really though, it can be extremely frustrating to have money constantly asked of you. And in 3 different languages, nonetheless. Another girl and I went to the Post Office for some stamps and a very nicely dressed, grown woman waiting in line gave me a puppy face and held out her hand as soon as I made eye contact with her. Really? Stop!

What do you even do with that? Does she really need the money? I don’t know. But do I really need the money, either? No. Would it even make that much of a difference? Do I really want to enforce the practice of begging? Doesn’t that further instill a sense of dependence on America(ns)? Is it wrong to wish a person would have more respect for themselves than to beg like that? But then who am I to say that—I don’t know her story, her situation. Is it really a respect issue, or is it more she thought she’d give a shot at making a few extra bucks? After all, we are white…

Hard to know.

And that's all before I even get to school to begin classes for the day.

We talked about these issues a lot in Lesotho. I’m finding the same hard questions resurfacing…even though Dakar is a very different corner of Africa, it’s very much
the same in a lot of ways.

new ideas to ponder

On my flight from DC to Dakar, I sat next to a South African woman who asked if I was going home. I half laughed to myself before responding, "In a way, yes." Until just recently, the backseat of my Toyota Corolla was the closest thing I had to my own bedroom. So for the time being, I guess home is wherever I am planted. The thought of 'going home' to Dakar endeared me to this place even before I arrived...and even after being here for only 3 days, I'm already starting to feel at home.

After finishing up my French assessment yesterday, I had some freetime in the afternoon. I went with a group of girls to check out the book store (or rather, book trailer)in the middle of campus, though I couldn't help but notice a tall Senegalese man shooting hoops by himself on the nearby basketball court. He kept trying to coaxe his friends on the sidelines to play with him, but they were clearly unmoved in the shade. I stood there with my friends, staring blankly and declaring (at least three times...to know one in particular) outloud "I wanna play basketball." Two minutes later...still standing there. Still wanting to play basketball. Still terrified.

Finally I shook myself, rallied, and walked over.

With khaki pants, a cardigan, sandals, and a big leather purse in towe, I approached this probably 6'5'' man and asked in broken French, "Can I play with you?" I learned quickly he didn't speak much French (or any English for that matter), but we somehow managed to communicate the rules of Around the World and Horse. By that time of course all his sideline buddies were getting a good chuckle out of this, and one of them even came to join us. We started playing Horse and in the first two minutes I had made every basket and they were both trailing by 2 (H-O)! Unfortunately that proud moment was short-lived. Ego in check.

Eventually more and more people joined, both Senegalese and CIEE students, and we decided to play Lightning/Bump/Knock Out. This presented a new challenge, however, since NONE of the Senegalese knew how to play... but again, we somehow communicated the rules through lots of role playing and broken French, and we got a big game going! They didn't totally get the concept of "if you don't make a basket, you're out" but we kind of guided them through the process. All in all, a big success.

The game broke up and a few guys about twice my height ended up playing 3-on-3. Though they were insistant I join their game, I assured them I would be far from helpful and opted for watching on the sidelines. Another guy strolled onto the court and here I witnessed a part of Senegalese culture I so admire and appreciate.

As a sign of respect, it's customary to greet everyone at a gathering by shaking their hand. It's an acknowledgement,a way of saying, "I see you." When this guy walked onto the court, he took the time to go around to everyone within the vicinity--even me, a total stranger standing off to the side--shake their hand, and greet them. It sounds simplistic, but I was incredibly struck by the power of that gesture. To feel recognized, respected--just seen. It's so easy in the States to feel invisible, unwanted or unwelcome in groups. This custom has a way of just washing over all that. It's beautiful.


On a lighter note, the meat-eating is going okay. I rang in my second day of having meat in two years with heaping portions of chicken at lunch, and some mystery meat... beef? lamb? for dinner. Hard to know. But no tummy aches yet! They eat meat here twice a day... sometimes three--we got bread, cheese, coffee and sardines for breakfast the other morning. Mmm mm! I really was doing pretty well with the whole carnivore thing until I looked down at my plate tonight and my dinner had teeth. I had to put a napkin over his little chippers just to choke down my plantains. I'm trying to stay positive.

Still laughing...

Salaammaalekum!

On a brief lunch break, but just enough time to tell you--Dakar is a total trip!

Hard to know where to begin. Goats are everywhere. On roof tops, in the street. I wake up in the middle of the night and hear them bleeting (bleating?) and can't help but respond with an explosive 'HA' everytime, no matter what time of day. So many things here I can't help but laugh at, very fun.

French speaking has been so wonderful and I've surprised myself with how not-shy I am using the language. What a great feeling to be able to communicate and make connections with people here, I absolutely love it! And finally for the first time since Normandale I'm in a place where everyone speaks French, too! Cloud nine, I'm telling you.

Wolof on the other hand... slightly different story. We had our first Survival Wolof class today--six other female CIEE students and our instructor Faatu. She was so gracious and patient with us, just a total dear. I thought I had the language figured out yesterday based on the few words I learned. We're meeting so many new people and learning new names, and Wolof seemed to conveniently fit that trend. Every word I learned in Wolof was just a combination of boys' names:

one - ben
thank you - jerry jeff
white person - two bob

Easy. Unfortunately not all words in Wolof quite follow that rule...it sounds cool but wow what a jumble of new sounds combinations. It will take some practicing for sure, but I'm excited to learn more!

I just got out of a meeting/consultation about my host family (!!) who will pick me up and take me home this Friday. Their last name is Sow (pronounced so) and I'm told there are a lot of them! :) Brothers, sisters, cousins--about ten or so. Some little ones, but a few my age, too, which will be nice. They speak French and Wolof and the dad speaks really good English, but I don't plan on tapping that resource too much I can help it. Apparently it's a really big, nice house and I will have my own room... it's in Sacre Coeur which is about a 25 minute walk from school, so I will most likely be taking a car rapide (these brightly decorated 30-40 year old buses with people hanging out the back yelling the destination... though there are no real set stops or routes ha) to and from school everyday.

The good friends I've made here are from Oregon and New Hampshire (go figure) and I'm finding all sorts of neat connections--people who are friends of friends (including my stepdad's doctor's daughter...weird). But the people here are so great, they're a good crew :)

Our campus is beautiful and very reminiscent of a Florida motel out of the 1950s... it's just one big square, baby blue and light yellow, two levels with a courtyard below with little walkways, palm trees and all sorts of beautiful, brightly colored flowers...and AC, thank goodness. Quite a pleasant place to be!

About to do my French placement test which will determine how many classes I can take in French and which level of French class I will be placed into. Wish me luck!

I'll leave you with my favorite Wolof saying I'm learned yet... it means thank God:

alxamdulilaay .... or al raam doo lee lie ... say it fast, you'll be smiling, too!

well here goes a test run... I can add pictures and even write! not totally computer illiterate. victory. that's awesome. t minus 9 days til we head for the west coast (of Africa, that is)!