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.
***********************************************************************
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.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 9, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
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!
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!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)