9.5.09
Huggies
I have 9 days left here, and the thing that still strikes me everyday is the weird juxtaposition of tradition and modernity. Yesterday I visited my homestay family. We were watching "Les Deux Visages d'Ana," a much-loved Mexican telenovela dubbed in French. During a break, a commercial for Huggies diapers came on. In the commercial, two women have their infants tied on their back with fabric in the traditional style that I witnessed so often in both Dakar and the various villages I visited. The babies, swathed in bright colors and African patterns, seem to meld onto the backs of the mothers. It's a quotidian Dakar sight, but it still strikes me as traditional and distinctly African. In the commercial, the women, speaking Wolof, enter a convenience store. I was surprised to discover that the commercial was advertising the incredibly familiar brand of Huggies diapers. Another bizarre contrast between tradition and modernity, Africa and the West.
5.5.09
Almost Famous
Sometimes living here in Dakar makes me feel like I'm a celebrity. Every time I leave my house, I know I'm stared at by virtually everyone. It's rare that I take a walk and I'm not approached by at least one man, who asks "am nga jekker" (do you have husband), or, if he has more tact, he'll ask my name and phone number first. When I took my little brother to Magic Land on Saturday, two kids asked to take a picture with me.
I would love to tell myself that all this attention is the necessary symptom of my overwhelming beauty, but really, it's because I have white skin. It's strange to live in such a homogeneous society, and it's stranger to be a part of the minority-- an obvious member of the 0.5%. When I go to France/ Italy in two weeks, and afterward, when I go back to NJ/ NY, my relative anonymity will be a welcome repose from all this scrutiny on the street, but I wonder if I'll feel any blow to my ego. I'll walk down the street in Manhattan and wonder, "how come no one's staring at me? Why are no men approaching me, no children following me, yelling 'toubab, toubab'?" No, back in the States, I'll be just another toubab on a street of toubabs.
I would love to tell myself that all this attention is the necessary symptom of my overwhelming beauty, but really, it's because I have white skin. It's strange to live in such a homogeneous society, and it's stranger to be a part of the minority-- an obvious member of the 0.5%. When I go to France/ Italy in two weeks, and afterward, when I go back to NJ/ NY, my relative anonymity will be a welcome repose from all this scrutiny on the street, but I wonder if I'll feel any blow to my ego. I'll walk down the street in Manhattan and wonder, "how come no one's staring at me? Why are no men approaching me, no children following me, yelling 'toubab, toubab'?" No, back in the States, I'll be just another toubab on a street of toubabs.
4.5.09
A Good Day.
Although I rarely use this blog to chronicle my daily activities, I want to talk about past Saturday. A great day overall, and since I'm starting to think of each of my days here as one of my last, I attribute some special significance to such a good Saturday.
Around noon, I went over to my homestay family's house. I had promised to take my 12 year old brother, Abdou, to MagicLand, an amusement park on the corniche overlooking the ocean. By 12:30, Abdou and I had hopped into a taxi and were en route to MagicLand. When we arrived, we were told that it wouldn't open until 2:30. Abdou and I sat on the rocks on the beach for two hours, talking and connecting in a big way. Abdou says he wants to be President of Senegal when he grows up, and he wants to make enough money to travel to the States. Finally, we went into MagicLand-- a Disney Land type place with about 20 rides. Abdou and I got two giant hamburgers for lunch and then we went on a lot of rides. Haunted house, moon jump, bumper cars, this spinny thing that disturbed the hamburger uneasily grumbling in my stomach, you name it-- we went on it. It was expensive, but so worth it to see the joy on Abdou's face.
After dropping Abdou back at his house around 5, I went home and hung out with my roommates. We made a delicious family dinner of jambalaya, and served it on one big platter. We've adopted the Senegalese eating-style, all circled around the same plate. If I could bring one custom back to the U.S., it would be that. Eating is such a communal, intimate experience here because of the shared plates.
After dinner, we went over to the apartment of some American friends we've met. They're leaving to travel around Africa, and this was a little goodbye soirée. They made crepes and we sat around and talked.
Around 1:30 AM, the night was just getting started. This place on the beach called Oceanium hosts a party on the first Saturday of every month; it's a fête that's really infamus among the toubab community of Dakar. After getting dropped off by our taxi on a deserted-looking street, scrambling over some rocks and traversing a steep hill, we followed the booming music into this rundown building that, like a good surprise, opened up onto a beautiful terrace overlooking the ocean. The place was packed with lots of Senegalese and, I'm convinced, all the toubabs I've ever met in Dakar. The DJ played great music and we danced until 5 AM, when my roommates and I taxi-ed home.
My roommate Clint had surprised us with pancake mix-- he has a family friend who's a flight attendant, and she had brought him some treats from the States. So around 5:30, we decided to make pancakes. Avery and I cooked them on our two stovetops, and then we all sat around devouring the pancakes, circled around the same plate for the second time that day, until the sun came up. Literally.
Around noon, I went over to my homestay family's house. I had promised to take my 12 year old brother, Abdou, to MagicLand, an amusement park on the corniche overlooking the ocean. By 12:30, Abdou and I had hopped into a taxi and were en route to MagicLand. When we arrived, we were told that it wouldn't open until 2:30. Abdou and I sat on the rocks on the beach for two hours, talking and connecting in a big way. Abdou says he wants to be President of Senegal when he grows up, and he wants to make enough money to travel to the States. Finally, we went into MagicLand-- a Disney Land type place with about 20 rides. Abdou and I got two giant hamburgers for lunch and then we went on a lot of rides. Haunted house, moon jump, bumper cars, this spinny thing that disturbed the hamburger uneasily grumbling in my stomach, you name it-- we went on it. It was expensive, but so worth it to see the joy on Abdou's face.
After dropping Abdou back at his house around 5, I went home and hung out with my roommates. We made a delicious family dinner of jambalaya, and served it on one big platter. We've adopted the Senegalese eating-style, all circled around the same plate. If I could bring one custom back to the U.S., it would be that. Eating is such a communal, intimate experience here because of the shared plates.
After dinner, we went over to the apartment of some American friends we've met. They're leaving to travel around Africa, and this was a little goodbye soirée. They made crepes and we sat around and talked.
Around 1:30 AM, the night was just getting started. This place on the beach called Oceanium hosts a party on the first Saturday of every month; it's a fête that's really infamus among the toubab community of Dakar. After getting dropped off by our taxi on a deserted-looking street, scrambling over some rocks and traversing a steep hill, we followed the booming music into this rundown building that, like a good surprise, opened up onto a beautiful terrace overlooking the ocean. The place was packed with lots of Senegalese and, I'm convinced, all the toubabs I've ever met in Dakar. The DJ played great music and we danced until 5 AM, when my roommates and I taxi-ed home.
My roommate Clint had surprised us with pancake mix-- he has a family friend who's a flight attendant, and she had brought him some treats from the States. So around 5:30, we decided to make pancakes. Avery and I cooked them on our two stovetops, and then we all sat around devouring the pancakes, circled around the same plate for the second time that day, until the sun came up. Literally.
30.4.09
The Art of Taxi-ing
It’s a game I’ve learned, the memorized progression of action to successfully taxi in Dakar. Wait for the ostentatious yellow to tow in at your feet. At the open window on the passenger’s side, lean in, widen eyes and dive into the verbal tennis match: Salaamaalekum, maalekumsalaam. Na nga def? Maangi fi rek*, chanted mechanically like a knee-jerk or the song Mother always sang, now a memory ingrained. Continue: Yaangi nos? Yaangi ci jamm?* And the taxi man might smile, appreciative of your efforts or amused by your bad pronunciation. Now is time to deliver the destination name, stare at the driver, who glares ahead without expression. You prod, ask, vous le connaissez? He’ll say the starting price. You’ll jump back from the window, friendly demeanor evaporated on the tar heat, aghast. Now’s the high-pitched haggling, and your insistence: Jangkat laa. Amuma xaalis!* He’ll shake his head, you scowl again. You play hard to get. Lean away from the window, squint into the sun like a cowboy in an old Western, stoic and strong: Ce n’est pas grave. Une autre va venir. Another will come. Start to wander away, and he’ll wave you in, wordlessly affirming that you’ve won. If he looks angry, it’s because you’re paying the price everyone else pays. After the first block, his displeasure will dissipate when he remembers that a young, reasonably attractive toubab woman is sitting in his back seat. He’ll glance into his rearview mirror at you. Donc, an nga jekker?* Full speed ahead into the tangled maze of Dakar's ridged cul-de-sacs and freeways.
*Hello! How are you doing? I'm here only.
*Are you doing well? You are in peace?
*I'm a student. I don't have money!
*You have a husband?
*Hello! How are you doing? I'm here only.
*Are you doing well? You are in peace?
*I'm a student. I don't have money!
*You have a husband?
26.4.09
Ataayah
Ataayah: the Wolof word for tea. You might be surprised to hear that the tea culture here in Senegal is huge. It's not your grandma's cup of tea, though. It's super strong, and somehow thick and heavy. The first time I drank ataayah, I was convinced it was some sort of spiced espresso. In many Senegalese families or gatherings of friends, ataayah plays a nearly omnipresent role.
The making of ataayah is a ritualistic, complex, and specific process. It takes about 30 minutes to prepare a round of tea, which is served in small shot-sized glasses. The ingredients: water, tea leaves, a buttload of sugar (the Senegalese, I've discovered, have a national sweet tooth rivaling any sweet tooth I've ever witnessed before), and optionally mint leaves, depending on the preference of the tea-maker. After precise durations of simmering and resting unheated, two of the shot-sized glasses are used to "cultivate the foam." (That sounds weird translated into English, but that's literally how they describe it in French). With a steady, accurate hand, the tea is poured from glass to glass, back and forth, really rapidly. In my two-month tutelage of learning how to make ataayah, I learned that this vital step looks way easier than it actually is.
The first round of tea is served and consumed fast. Then, the second round begins. Ataayah is an all afternoon, all evening, and all night thing. At my homestay, my father starts the first cup of ataayah around six and continues until midnight, when everyone goes to bed. He pauses the constant ritual of mixing, sugar adding, and pouring from glass to glass when we eat dinner. People love teaching toubabs how to make tea. I've had about 4 steady ataayah tutors throughout my time here. I wouldn't say I've mastered the process-- I spill frequently, add too little sugar, put the mint in before the water boils (big faux pas), etc. I'll just say it's a work in process.
The making of ataayah is a ritualistic, complex, and specific process. It takes about 30 minutes to prepare a round of tea, which is served in small shot-sized glasses. The ingredients: water, tea leaves, a buttload of sugar (the Senegalese, I've discovered, have a national sweet tooth rivaling any sweet tooth I've ever witnessed before), and optionally mint leaves, depending on the preference of the tea-maker. After precise durations of simmering and resting unheated, two of the shot-sized glasses are used to "cultivate the foam." (That sounds weird translated into English, but that's literally how they describe it in French). With a steady, accurate hand, the tea is poured from glass to glass, back and forth, really rapidly. In my two-month tutelage of learning how to make ataayah, I learned that this vital step looks way easier than it actually is.
The first round of tea is served and consumed fast. Then, the second round begins. Ataayah is an all afternoon, all evening, and all night thing. At my homestay, my father starts the first cup of ataayah around six and continues until midnight, when everyone goes to bed. He pauses the constant ritual of mixing, sugar adding, and pouring from glass to glass when we eat dinner. People love teaching toubabs how to make tea. I've had about 4 steady ataayah tutors throughout my time here. I wouldn't say I've mastered the process-- I spill frequently, add too little sugar, put the mint in before the water boils (big faux pas), etc. I'll just say it's a work in process.
22.4.09
Muscle Memories
If living in a new culture is like one big cranial work-out, surely some muscles tone and tighten. Some muscles even appear where there was only bone and skin before.
In about three weeks, my Mom is coming to visit. After staying in Senegal for 4 days, it's off to Paris. I've been brainstorming a list for my Mom of things to expect in Dakar to lessen her shock so she can perhaps enjoy herself a bit while here. The problem is, I have these muscles now, and it's hard to remember a time when I lacked them. All of the sights and sounds that shocked me originally feel familiar now. In the continuous work-out of living here, my mental muscles have strengthened and adapted to Dakar-- and now that I'm accustomed, it's hard to separate the things that felt strange.
There's the call to prayer that you hear several times every night, as long as you're within a couple miles of a mosquée (which you probably are, being in Senegal). When I first got here, I remember waking up to it every night-- that ominous, nasal voice chanting Arabic over a sleeping city. I don't even hear it now. It's too ubiquitous to notice.
The extended greetings have grown familiar. Of course, when you see someone you know on the street, you shake their hands and dive into the syncopated back-and-forth: "Assalamalakum! Malekumsalaam! Nanga def? Mangi fi rek. Yaangi noos? Waaw, mangi noos bu ba. Yaangi ci jamm? Waaw, jamm rekk allahamdulilah. Ca va? ca va bien? Oui, ca va. Ca va. Ca va?" It'll be strange to not partake in this long process of checking up on the well-being of an aquantaince when I'm back in the States.
Recently I remembered that in the States, we don't haggle for everything. In Manhattan, one doesn't stand outside the taxi before getting in, arguing with the driver about the price for five minutes. In the States, there are less children begging, and there's not a universal symbol that denotes a beggar: the empty tomato paste cans used by all the talibes as a receptacle for coins and sugar cubes.
The car rapides? The sand and trash everywhere? The people balancing large bundles on top of their heads as they stride swiftly down the street? The eating with hands out of one big bowl?
It's strange trying to pinpoint the things that shocked me months ago, because it's the same things that feel so familiar now.
In about three weeks, my Mom is coming to visit. After staying in Senegal for 4 days, it's off to Paris. I've been brainstorming a list for my Mom of things to expect in Dakar to lessen her shock so she can perhaps enjoy herself a bit while here. The problem is, I have these muscles now, and it's hard to remember a time when I lacked them. All of the sights and sounds that shocked me originally feel familiar now. In the continuous work-out of living here, my mental muscles have strengthened and adapted to Dakar-- and now that I'm accustomed, it's hard to separate the things that felt strange.
There's the call to prayer that you hear several times every night, as long as you're within a couple miles of a mosquée (which you probably are, being in Senegal). When I first got here, I remember waking up to it every night-- that ominous, nasal voice chanting Arabic over a sleeping city. I don't even hear it now. It's too ubiquitous to notice.
The extended greetings have grown familiar. Of course, when you see someone you know on the street, you shake their hands and dive into the syncopated back-and-forth: "Assalamalakum! Malekumsalaam! Nanga def? Mangi fi rek. Yaangi noos? Waaw, mangi noos bu ba. Yaangi ci jamm? Waaw, jamm rekk allahamdulilah. Ca va? ca va bien? Oui, ca va. Ca va. Ca va?" It'll be strange to not partake in this long process of checking up on the well-being of an aquantaince when I'm back in the States.
Recently I remembered that in the States, we don't haggle for everything. In Manhattan, one doesn't stand outside the taxi before getting in, arguing with the driver about the price for five minutes. In the States, there are less children begging, and there's not a universal symbol that denotes a beggar: the empty tomato paste cans used by all the talibes as a receptacle for coins and sugar cubes.
The car rapides? The sand and trash everywhere? The people balancing large bundles on top of their heads as they stride swiftly down the street? The eating with hands out of one big bowl?
It's strange trying to pinpoint the things that shocked me months ago, because it's the same things that feel so familiar now.
17.4.09
Cell Phone Setbacks
Yesterday, I had an interview with a fairly well-known Dakarois poet named Elie-Charles Moreau. The interview was really successful-- Moreau was totally enthusiastic and gave me a lot of new contacts that will be useful for my Independent Study Project. With the confidence and excitement that's always a positive symptom of connecting with someone despite looming language barriers, I mounted a car rapide, the brightly-painted, wackily-decorated, 35-year old vans that serve as public transportation throughout Dakar. Car rapides are cheap (50 to 100 CFA, which is about a dime in USD), they traverse the peninsula of Dakar, and are usually packed tight with people who would have no qualms pickpocketing a toubab like me.
So I should have known better than to hop onto the over-crowded van, leaving my purse unlocked and mostly unguarded. With one hand, I was holding a handful of books and papers Moreau had given me, with the other, I was gripping onto the back door of the car rapide for dear life, my hair swinging in the wind as we swerved through traffic. Meanwhile, someone else's hand sneaked into my purse and discovered my cell phone. C'est pas grave, just an annoyance. And l can't say how lucky I am that they didn't get my wallet.
The theft of my cell phone isn't the heart of my story, though. Today I went to buy a new one at the Orange store in Point E. Orange is like the Verizon of Senegal, donc, I expected the Orange store to be like a Verizon store in the U.S. You know: you walk in, pick out a phone, and buy it. But that would be too easy, too sensical, for the likes of Senegal. Instead, the Orange store is a collection of long lines, numbers assigned to customers, called in fast succession and skipped quickly. It's the true epitome of beaurocracy. I spent about an hour navigating the line labyrinth there-- explaining to people again and again that I just wanted to buy a new cell phone. My number got skipped a couple times, I got shoved to the back of several lines, but finally, I succeeded in securing a new phone and SIM card.
Feeling triumphant, my next stop was the bank. I had a couple big bills and I just wanted to get change. To my chagrin, though, the moment I entered the bank I found myself on the end of another long line, assigned to another distant number, plunged into total African beaurocracy. As I waited, I attempted to set up my phone, met le pouce et cetera, I couldn't get the stupid thing activated. Gritting my teeth, thinking about my stolen phone, the lost contacts, my time lost waiting in so many lines, I almost felt the familiar frustrated tears.
But I sucked it up. I asked the people sitting on either side of me for help, and soon I found myself swarmed by people in the bank, overwhelmed with generousity and help. My phone was passed around to about a dozen people, each altruistic stranger trying to get it to work, as I explained my story. En fait, c'est mon deuxieme portable-- l'autre était volé hier à la car rapide, et ce matin j'ai du attendre un heure à Orange! C'est dommage, quoi. Finally, a young Senegalese man figured out how to activate my SIM card. He handed my phone back to me, shaking his head at my cell phone ordeal. "Bienvenue à l'Afrique," he smiled. Welcome to Africa.
So I should have known better than to hop onto the over-crowded van, leaving my purse unlocked and mostly unguarded. With one hand, I was holding a handful of books and papers Moreau had given me, with the other, I was gripping onto the back door of the car rapide for dear life, my hair swinging in the wind as we swerved through traffic. Meanwhile, someone else's hand sneaked into my purse and discovered my cell phone. C'est pas grave, just an annoyance. And l can't say how lucky I am that they didn't get my wallet.
The theft of my cell phone isn't the heart of my story, though. Today I went to buy a new one at the Orange store in Point E. Orange is like the Verizon of Senegal, donc, I expected the Orange store to be like a Verizon store in the U.S. You know: you walk in, pick out a phone, and buy it. But that would be too easy, too sensical, for the likes of Senegal. Instead, the Orange store is a collection of long lines, numbers assigned to customers, called in fast succession and skipped quickly. It's the true epitome of beaurocracy. I spent about an hour navigating the line labyrinth there-- explaining to people again and again that I just wanted to buy a new cell phone. My number got skipped a couple times, I got shoved to the back of several lines, but finally, I succeeded in securing a new phone and SIM card.
Feeling triumphant, my next stop was the bank. I had a couple big bills and I just wanted to get change. To my chagrin, though, the moment I entered the bank I found myself on the end of another long line, assigned to another distant number, plunged into total African beaurocracy. As I waited, I attempted to set up my phone, met le pouce et cetera, I couldn't get the stupid thing activated. Gritting my teeth, thinking about my stolen phone, the lost contacts, my time lost waiting in so many lines, I almost felt the familiar frustrated tears.
But I sucked it up. I asked the people sitting on either side of me for help, and soon I found myself swarmed by people in the bank, overwhelmed with generousity and help. My phone was passed around to about a dozen people, each altruistic stranger trying to get it to work, as I explained my story. En fait, c'est mon deuxieme portable-- l'autre était volé hier à la car rapide, et ce matin j'ai du attendre un heure à Orange! C'est dommage, quoi. Finally, a young Senegalese man figured out how to activate my SIM card. He handed my phone back to me, shaking his head at my cell phone ordeal. "Bienvenue à l'Afrique," he smiled. Welcome to Africa.
7.4.09
Spiritual Encounters
In a recent group conversation with Souleye Diallo, the 50-something, gray-haired academic director of our program, someone asked, "Souleye, have we ever been in the midst of danger here in Senegal? Have you ever been scared for us?" To my horror and complete surprise, Souleye turned to me and said, "Clare, I was afraid for your life in Iwol."
Iwol is an old Bedik village on the top of a mountain near Kedougou. The Bediks are animists-- they fled the spread of Islamicism, clinging to rocky, remote mountaintops and their traditions like the bois sacré. Iwol's the poorest village we visited, but also the most richly spiritual. The place is full of ancient baobabs and secrets.
When we climbed the mountain to Iwol almost a month ago, I experienced a strange occurance-- but I didn't hear the full story until last week. In Iwol, we were playing on one of the gargantuan, too-big-to-be-true baobabs. I had broken away from the group and climbed a bit further when I was stung by a bee on the side of my face. I shrieked and jumped down. Souleye yelled to me with eerie immediacy from across the field. He instructed me to walk towards him, slowly, with my arms in front of me, zombie-style. The bee, meanwhile, would just not go away. He was still buzzing around my face, buzzing right in my ear. When I reached the cluster of huts where Souleye stood, three Bedik villagers surrounded me. They chanted softly and moved their hands around me in gentle orbits. Moments passed. I stood shocked and frozen, my face still smarting from the sting. Finally, the buzzing grew distant-- the villagers had distracted the bee from me to Souleye. With the bee now hovering Souleye, he walked away slowly and told me to sit down, be calm, and tell the other students who came to check on me to stay away. After a few minutes of confused silence, I caught up with the rest of the group and hiked down the mountain. I forgot entirely about the bee and the strange Bedik chanting I had witnessed.
I forgot, that is, until Souleye recounted the whole story. Before we visited Iwol, the chef du village was furiously yelling at his son -- typical for a father, but tone of voice has greater implications for a leader who has inhereted spiritual enigmas through generations of animist Bedik chiefs. Apparently, the chief of Iwol has inhereted the ability to vocally summon the bees, to assemble them for attack-- because of his anger, the chief threatened to call them. Souleye bribed the chief with money and cola nuts; the chief lowered his voice and calmed the aggravated bees by the time we arrived in Iwol. But when I was stung, Souleye was terrified that the chief had gone back on his promise and that, as an innocent bystander with unfortunate proximity, I would be attacked by the hordes of summoned bees. The Bedik villagers who chanted over me "called off" the bee attack, and maybe that's why I'm still here in one piece, relatively unwounded.
Lesson learned: Ancient vestiges of spirituality invade through unexpected channels. Bees. It's the belief in communication between human and animal, and the deep connection implied.
Iwol is an old Bedik village on the top of a mountain near Kedougou. The Bediks are animists-- they fled the spread of Islamicism, clinging to rocky, remote mountaintops and their traditions like the bois sacré. Iwol's the poorest village we visited, but also the most richly spiritual. The place is full of ancient baobabs and secrets.
When we climbed the mountain to Iwol almost a month ago, I experienced a strange occurance-- but I didn't hear the full story until last week. In Iwol, we were playing on one of the gargantuan, too-big-to-be-true baobabs. I had broken away from the group and climbed a bit further when I was stung by a bee on the side of my face. I shrieked and jumped down. Souleye yelled to me with eerie immediacy from across the field. He instructed me to walk towards him, slowly, with my arms in front of me, zombie-style. The bee, meanwhile, would just not go away. He was still buzzing around my face, buzzing right in my ear. When I reached the cluster of huts where Souleye stood, three Bedik villagers surrounded me. They chanted softly and moved their hands around me in gentle orbits. Moments passed. I stood shocked and frozen, my face still smarting from the sting. Finally, the buzzing grew distant-- the villagers had distracted the bee from me to Souleye. With the bee now hovering Souleye, he walked away slowly and told me to sit down, be calm, and tell the other students who came to check on me to stay away. After a few minutes of confused silence, I caught up with the rest of the group and hiked down the mountain. I forgot entirely about the bee and the strange Bedik chanting I had witnessed.
I forgot, that is, until Souleye recounted the whole story. Before we visited Iwol, the chef du village was furiously yelling at his son -- typical for a father, but tone of voice has greater implications for a leader who has inhereted spiritual enigmas through generations of animist Bedik chiefs. Apparently, the chief of Iwol has inhereted the ability to vocally summon the bees, to assemble them for attack-- because of his anger, the chief threatened to call them. Souleye bribed the chief with money and cola nuts; the chief lowered his voice and calmed the aggravated bees by the time we arrived in Iwol. But when I was stung, Souleye was terrified that the chief had gone back on his promise and that, as an innocent bystander with unfortunate proximity, I would be attacked by the hordes of summoned bees. The Bedik villagers who chanted over me "called off" the bee attack, and maybe that's why I'm still here in one piece, relatively unwounded.
Lesson learned: Ancient vestiges of spirituality invade through unexpected channels. Bees. It's the belief in communication between human and animal, and the deep connection implied.
6.4.09
Take Me To Saint Louis
Or better yet, don't take me to Saint Louis. Yesterday, I returned from my trip to Saint Louis, Senegal. On the downside: Saint Louis is far too touristy for my tastes, more expensive than Dakar, and four of my friends got pick-pocketed. One of them got a staff infection in his foot. There's a big resentment against tourists and white people in general. I often found myself grabbed at and taunted by mean hordes of St. Louisian children. In general, I don't recommend Saint Louis.
On the bright side: the architecture is colonial French and in the process of crumble and decay. It's an eerie, shabby beauty. SIT put us up in a gorgeous hotel, very business-class, and we got a large meal stipend-- I fulfilled most of my cravings for European/ Western style food. Most importantly, I found myself really missing Dakar, and missing my family in Dakar (and of course, missing my family aux Etas-Unis-- but that's a constant, familiar pain). Coming home to Dakar, I realized I've been calling it 'home' effortlessly, without thought.
On the bright side: the architecture is colonial French and in the process of crumble and decay. It's an eerie, shabby beauty. SIT put us up in a gorgeous hotel, very business-class, and we got a large meal stipend-- I fulfilled most of my cravings for European/ Western style food. Most importantly, I found myself really missing Dakar, and missing my family in Dakar (and of course, missing my family aux Etas-Unis-- but that's a constant, familiar pain). Coming home to Dakar, I realized I've been calling it 'home' effortlessly, without thought.
Teranga
The Wolof word teranga, meaning hospitality and welcoming generosity, is a quintessential definition of my second village stay at Keur Sadaro. At my homestay, I was given a surprisingly luxurious bedroom, which I eventually figured out was the master bedroom. The only problem I encountered was an acute over-generosity -- for example, I received three giant dinners each night, and my family considered it unaccetable for me to not eat it all. I aspire to be as unselfish as the Mbodji family of Keur Sadaro, who measures their wealth by how much they give rather than how much they have.
I felt immediately connected and adopted by my family and the village. Every new person I encountered in the village would ask my name (Dialla Mbodji), and then ask the name of my mother and my father. After having received this essential information, they'd pat me on the back or touch my face affectionately, and it was like we'd been family for years. My mother was 27, and although she spoke only several words of French and I spoke only a few words of Wolof, I felt extremely deeply connected to her.
I will remember my last night in Keur Sadaro for the rest of my life. After helping make dinner, grinding garlic and spices and cutting haricots, and eating what turned out to be the best yassa of my life, I sat around a fire with my mother and kids for two hours making beignettes, little fried balls of dough that she gave the next morning as a delicious parting gift. My mother asked me if I wanted fouden, the Senegalese version of henna. When I eagerly said yes, she took me by the hand to her bedroom, where we sat by candlelight surrounded by children. As she ripped a plastic bag into strips and smoothed them into my palms to create a grid-like orange design, a hushed and reverent silence accompanied the candle flicker. As my mother mixed the fouden powder into a paste with sugar and water and gently smoothed the brown mud on my hands, my cousin Matar asked me, "pourquoi tu es calme?" Meaning, I think, why are you so quiet? Why are we all so quiet? Why does the silence of this moment feel so weighty? I answered: "parce que je suis contente, Matar." By a miraculous stroke of language ability and stretched memory, I remembered a Wolof class weeks ago when we learned how to express happiness. Kontaan naa, I said. My mother and all the children surrounding us on the bed smiled and nodded. Kontaan naa.
I felt immediately connected and adopted by my family and the village. Every new person I encountered in the village would ask my name (Dialla Mbodji), and then ask the name of my mother and my father. After having received this essential information, they'd pat me on the back or touch my face affectionately, and it was like we'd been family for years. My mother was 27, and although she spoke only several words of French and I spoke only a few words of Wolof, I felt extremely deeply connected to her.
I will remember my last night in Keur Sadaro for the rest of my life. After helping make dinner, grinding garlic and spices and cutting haricots, and eating what turned out to be the best yassa of my life, I sat around a fire with my mother and kids for two hours making beignettes, little fried balls of dough that she gave the next morning as a delicious parting gift. My mother asked me if I wanted fouden, the Senegalese version of henna. When I eagerly said yes, she took me by the hand to her bedroom, where we sat by candlelight surrounded by children. As she ripped a plastic bag into strips and smoothed them into my palms to create a grid-like orange design, a hushed and reverent silence accompanied the candle flicker. As my mother mixed the fouden powder into a paste with sugar and water and gently smoothed the brown mud on my hands, my cousin Matar asked me, "pourquoi tu es calme?" Meaning, I think, why are you so quiet? Why are we all so quiet? Why does the silence of this moment feel so weighty? I answered: "parce que je suis contente, Matar." By a miraculous stroke of language ability and stretched memory, I remembered a Wolof class weeks ago when we learned how to express happiness. Kontaan naa, I said. My mother and all the children surrounding us on the bed smiled and nodded. Kontaan naa.
25.3.09
Yes We Can!
"Les locales," the local elections here in Senegal, occured last Sunday. There was a lot of tension-- buses burnt at the university, riots, some injuries-- because of a general sentiment of discontent with President Abdouleye Wade. Dakar was a hotspot for tension because President Wade's son, Karim Wade, was running for office. Prior to the election, President Wade had used taxpayers' money to campaign for Karim, and the Senegalese people did NOT appreciate that.
When President Wade was first elected in 2000, he represented change for Senegal: a new era of prosperity and employment. Because little change has actually occured here, most of the Senegalese I've talked politics with are people who supported Wade, campaigned for him even, but now want him out of office. "Il pense qu'il soit un roi," my homestay dad told me, "son téte est trop gros." He thinks he is a king; he's gotten a big head.
In Dakar, one of the campaigns rivaling that of Karim Wade's struck a bell that reminded me of Obama's well-loved mantra: Yes We Can. I guess the Senegalese version is "osons changer." Translation: Let's dare to change. The American people aren't the only ones calling for dramatic change. It's all just one big cycle of revolution, discontent, and more revolution.
Karim Wade lost in his precinct by a landslide. The underdog campaign, the politicians my Senegalese family support, won. My mother danced in front of the TV and kissed the political fliers stacked on our living room table. Karim Wade's major defeat illustrates a big dissatisfaction with the regime of President Wade, so the national elections in 2010 are sure to be dramatic and full of turmoil.
When President Wade was first elected in 2000, he represented change for Senegal: a new era of prosperity and employment. Because little change has actually occured here, most of the Senegalese I've talked politics with are people who supported Wade, campaigned for him even, but now want him out of office. "Il pense qu'il soit un roi," my homestay dad told me, "son téte est trop gros." He thinks he is a king; he's gotten a big head.
In Dakar, one of the campaigns rivaling that of Karim Wade's struck a bell that reminded me of Obama's well-loved mantra: Yes We Can. I guess the Senegalese version is "osons changer." Translation: Let's dare to change. The American people aren't the only ones calling for dramatic change. It's all just one big cycle of revolution, discontent, and more revolution.
Karim Wade lost in his precinct by a landslide. The underdog campaign, the politicians my Senegalese family support, won. My mother danced in front of the TV and kissed the political fliers stacked on our living room table. Karim Wade's major defeat illustrates a big dissatisfaction with the regime of President Wade, so the national elections in 2010 are sure to be dramatic and full of turmoil.
23.3.09
Sensory Turmoil
Smells I love here: Yassa (a spicy, oily onion sauce) sizzling on the gas burner in our dirt-floored kitchen, the shea butter my family lathers on their skin.
Smells I hate here: The scent of the mouton who lives in the courtyard of my homestay and the toilet, used by more than ten people, that doesn't fully flush.
Sounds I love here: The extended greetings I have with the same people everyday on my way to school. The themesongs of the daily soap operas I have come to know and love. The mbalax playing on the boombox on weekend mornings, with Maty and Penda singing along as they do laundry. The ataaya (tea) pouring from cup to cup. The stools getting set for dinner, the sound of wood dragging across the tile floor that awakens my hunger in anticipation for a big plate of rice and fish.
Sounds I hate here: Hissing is the Senegalese equivalent of "hey you!" Although it's usually not badly intended, the hissing from all directions makes my skin crawl. The yelling of "toubab" (Wolof word for white person) that I hear virtually everytime I step out of my house, and the talibes (street kids who beg for coins to give to the Mouride, their Koranic teacher who sends them out to collect money each day) for "petit caudeaux." The constant beeping of cars. The yelling of my homestay family. The scurrying of little cockroach legs on the floor at night.
Tastes I hate here: Laic, a millet gruel-like soup that's traditional for Sunday evenings.
Tastes I love here: Fresh, ripe fruit-- papaya, coconut, soon to be mango! Ataaya, a super strong tea served in small tasses, and made through a specific, complex process that involves lots of pouring from glass to glass to cultivate the foam. I've been learning. Yassa, and everything rice and fishy. The oily consistency took a while to adapt to, but I can't get enough now and will probably have to enter a health food rehabilation center when I return to the U.S.
Smells I hate here: The scent of the mouton who lives in the courtyard of my homestay and the toilet, used by more than ten people, that doesn't fully flush.
Sounds I love here: The extended greetings I have with the same people everyday on my way to school. The themesongs of the daily soap operas I have come to know and love. The mbalax playing on the boombox on weekend mornings, with Maty and Penda singing along as they do laundry. The ataaya (tea) pouring from cup to cup. The stools getting set for dinner, the sound of wood dragging across the tile floor that awakens my hunger in anticipation for a big plate of rice and fish.
Sounds I hate here: Hissing is the Senegalese equivalent of "hey you!" Although it's usually not badly intended, the hissing from all directions makes my skin crawl. The yelling of "toubab" (Wolof word for white person) that I hear virtually everytime I step out of my house, and the talibes (street kids who beg for coins to give to the Mouride, their Koranic teacher who sends them out to collect money each day) for "petit caudeaux." The constant beeping of cars. The yelling of my homestay family. The scurrying of little cockroach legs on the floor at night.
Tastes I hate here: Laic, a millet gruel-like soup that's traditional for Sunday evenings.
Tastes I love here: Fresh, ripe fruit-- papaya, coconut, soon to be mango! Ataaya, a super strong tea served in small tasses, and made through a specific, complex process that involves lots of pouring from glass to glass to cultivate the foam. I've been learning. Yassa, and everything rice and fishy. The oily consistency took a while to adapt to, but I can't get enough now and will probably have to enter a health food rehabilation center when I return to the U.S.
19.3.09
Wolof, Schmolof.
Since arriving in Sénégal, I've been learning the most widely spoken local language here-- Wolof. Wolof's spoken by the Wolof people; they live mostly in Western Sénégal, The Gambia, a bit in Guinea and Guinea-Bissau, and of course, in Petit Sénégal, Harlem, NYC. Wolof is heavy with harsh consonants, and has an almost Asian-sounding intonation at times. When combined with the stereotypically loud decibel of the Wolof people, it's downright scary. Most nights when I'm watching TV with my homestay family/ watching my homestay family, I have to debate if there's a huge, screaming fight going on, or if it's just another regular conversation intensified by the typical loudness and severity of the Wolof sound. To be honest, my enthusiasm to learn Wolof has waned since being here: really, when am I going to use it when I return to the U.S, other than when bargaining for knock-off purses from Senegalese vendors on the streets of Manhattan?
Nevertheless, I've been pondering what information a language articulates about the society that speaks it. In Wolof, the pronouns are always changing. It feels like each day in Wolof, we learn a new pronoun tense. My teacher, Faatu, is a real sweetheart-- she's soft-spoken, wears glasses, always veiled and dressed in an impeccably-matching, impossibly-bright head to toe ensemble-- but sometimes, I just want to sass her: "Oh, really, Faatu, this is the future-tense pronoun to emphasize the verb, versus the past-tense pronoun to emphasize the verb, versus the declarative pronouns, versus the pronouns that emphasize the subject, etc, etc?!"
Despite the infinite pronouns, the verbs in Wolof never change. No verb conjugation. Think: I am, you am, he am, she am, we am, they am. Maybe the big nerd in me is overanalyzing this, but the lack of specificity when it comes to action denotes a universality. I am, just the same as he am-- right? Furthermore, there's virtually no differentiation between present and future tenses in Wolof. It's the past tense that's dissimilar. I wonder if this emphasis on past tense points to a history longer than a 20 year-old American girl like me could possibly comprehend.
Anyway, my head is caught in the cross-tides of too many languages. We learn Wolof in French, and at SIT, we speak a mutated combination of Wolof, French, and English: Franglof? Donc, mangi dem (je pars), ba beneen yoon (à la prochaine fois)!
Nevertheless, I've been pondering what information a language articulates about the society that speaks it. In Wolof, the pronouns are always changing. It feels like each day in Wolof, we learn a new pronoun tense. My teacher, Faatu, is a real sweetheart-- she's soft-spoken, wears glasses, always veiled and dressed in an impeccably-matching, impossibly-bright head to toe ensemble-- but sometimes, I just want to sass her: "Oh, really, Faatu, this is the future-tense pronoun to emphasize the verb, versus the past-tense pronoun to emphasize the verb, versus the declarative pronouns, versus the pronouns that emphasize the subject, etc, etc?!"
Despite the infinite pronouns, the verbs in Wolof never change. No verb conjugation. Think: I am, you am, he am, she am, we am, they am. Maybe the big nerd in me is overanalyzing this, but the lack of specificity when it comes to action denotes a universality. I am, just the same as he am-- right? Furthermore, there's virtually no differentiation between present and future tenses in Wolof. It's the past tense that's dissimilar. I wonder if this emphasis on past tense points to a history longer than a 20 year-old American girl like me could possibly comprehend.
Anyway, my head is caught in the cross-tides of too many languages. We learn Wolof in French, and at SIT, we speak a mutated combination of Wolof, French, and English: Franglof? Donc, mangi dem (je pars), ba beneen yoon (à la prochaine fois)!
17.3.09
The Tap Water Disaster
I have been trying to ween myself onto the tap water here. For a few weeks, I've been mixing about half a cup of tap water with my bottle of mineral water each day. On Sunday, I made the mistake of drinking a whole bottle of tap water at once. "I'll be fine," I thought, "my system is probably used to the tap water by now." False. I'm sick with the big V and D (not to be too graphic). Today I lay outside in the shade, trying not to throw up, and last night was maybe the most unpleasant night of my life. I will spare the details.
This is what happens when you're in a new place for a month and a half, thinking you've finally got the hang of things-- you're thrown for yet another big loop. You get sick on the water you had assumed your body was habituated to. Oh well, there's nothing like being ill to make you miss the comforts of home. The comforts of your bed, of the toilet that flushes, of your Mom bringing you gingerale. I feel homesick, and it's hard to appreciate the wonders of Dakar when my body's swimming with nausea. Just one of those days, I guess.
This is what happens when you're in a new place for a month and a half, thinking you've finally got the hang of things-- you're thrown for yet another big loop. You get sick on the water you had assumed your body was habituated to. Oh well, there's nothing like being ill to make you miss the comforts of home. The comforts of your bed, of the toilet that flushes, of your Mom bringing you gingerale. I feel homesick, and it's hard to appreciate the wonders of Dakar when my body's swimming with nausea. Just one of those days, I guess.
15.3.09
Les Cafards
It's weirdly coincidental that I wrote about cockroaches in my last post. Friday in class, we discussed a French idiom: avoir les cafards (to have cockroaches) is an equivalent to what we call pet peeves. Some of mes cafards du Sénégal: the actual cafards are exasperating, of course, but I could go on about the little things that bother me about Sénégal, the hard things about being a foreigner surrounded by a culture and language I don't fully understand.
I hate that people talk down to me because of my language (in)ability, and I hate that I usually can't understand them when they speak to me as a peer, anyway. I hate the societal limbo I am placed in as an American woman; in the complex gender hierarchies here, I am suspended above Senegalese women and below the men. I'm dangling between gender roles, and another downside of being an American woman is the difficulty of making Senegalese friends. The women here are almost universally icy towards American woman, and the men are often over-friendly and, in my experience, ALWAYS with alterior motives-- not just Visa, but the general idea here that all American women are sexual, easy, and willing.
My awkward societal positioning lends itself to my general sentiment that I am out of place here, that everyday calls for focused navigating: navigating the trash, broken bottles, and sand that litters even the most wealthy streets; navigating the dynamics of the Leye family, navigating the many aspects of life I simply do not comprehend. How can my family, for example, have upwards of 150 TV channels, but not a working toilet?
Between the fatigue of constant navigation, the discomfort, and the uncertainty, though, I am grateful to be here. It's emotionally taxing but I'm gaining a lot (perspective, sensitivity, thicker skin... body weight). To be a constant outsider is hard but weirdly liberating. And a part of me loves the adventure of it all. It's the excitement of waking up each morning not knowing my footing, knowing that I will trip and fall several times throughout the day, but going to sleep having made at least one steady step in the right direction.
I hate that people talk down to me because of my language (in)ability, and I hate that I usually can't understand them when they speak to me as a peer, anyway. I hate the societal limbo I am placed in as an American woman; in the complex gender hierarchies here, I am suspended above Senegalese women and below the men. I'm dangling between gender roles, and another downside of being an American woman is the difficulty of making Senegalese friends. The women here are almost universally icy towards American woman, and the men are often over-friendly and, in my experience, ALWAYS with alterior motives-- not just Visa, but the general idea here that all American women are sexual, easy, and willing.
My awkward societal positioning lends itself to my general sentiment that I am out of place here, that everyday calls for focused navigating: navigating the trash, broken bottles, and sand that litters even the most wealthy streets; navigating the dynamics of the Leye family, navigating the many aspects of life I simply do not comprehend. How can my family, for example, have upwards of 150 TV channels, but not a working toilet?
Between the fatigue of constant navigation, the discomfort, and the uncertainty, though, I am grateful to be here. It's emotionally taxing but I'm gaining a lot (perspective, sensitivity, thicker skin... body weight). To be a constant outsider is hard but weirdly liberating. And a part of me loves the adventure of it all. It's the excitement of waking up each morning not knowing my footing, knowing that I will trip and fall several times throughout the day, but going to sleep having made at least one steady step in the right direction.
9.3.09
Metamorphosis, Cockroaches.
In Franz Kafka's short story "Metamorphosis," Gregor Samsa transforms into a "monstrous, verminous bug." Don't worry, I'm not experiencing any entomological changes, but I'm really just invoking Kafka to mention the two cockroaches I killed in my bedroom this morning.
A month ago in the U.S., I would have experienced a minor nervous breakdown if I woke up to two cockroaches in my bed. Not outside the house, not on the floor of my room, but in my bed. This morning, I nudged them onto the floor and slammed them with my shoe, one after the other, without a major change in facial expression. And despite the roaches, I still consider my living situation in Dakar to be near-luxury compared to my village stay in Boundou Kodi-- and it's almost painful to compare my living situations in New Jersey, Brooklyn, or Ohio.
Well, if you're thinking of me, think of the two "splats" that defined my morning, and just speculate how much I miss you all.
A month ago in the U.S., I would have experienced a minor nervous breakdown if I woke up to two cockroaches in my bed. Not outside the house, not on the floor of my room, but in my bed. This morning, I nudged them onto the floor and slammed them with my shoe, one after the other, without a major change in facial expression. And despite the roaches, I still consider my living situation in Dakar to be near-luxury compared to my village stay in Boundou Kodi-- and it's almost painful to compare my living situations in New Jersey, Brooklyn, or Ohio.
Well, if you're thinking of me, think of the two "splats" that defined my morning, and just speculate how much I miss you all.
8.3.09
Boundou Kodi
Just returned from Kedougou, Eastern Senegal, last night, after suffering a bus ride the lasted from 5 AM to 1 AM the next morning and traversing miles and miles of unpaved, rocky roads. It's too easy to go to a different place and say your life is changed. But after Kedougou, I know that my perspective is widened.
I stayed in the rural village of Boundou Kodi for three nights and four days. Je suis restée avec the chief of the village, Mamadi, probably 70 years old or so. Mamadi has four wives. Souleyeman, his oldest son, has two, and other of Mamadi's sons and daughters have wives with children. Needless to say, there were upwards of 25 kids who lived at the same compound as me. The architecture of the place was simple enough: 11 huts, cement and circular, with pointed, thatched roofs. Each wife has her own hut, and the children sleep wherever there's a bed.
Several times during those days, I had to actively stop myself from remembering those commercials we see on TV in the United States. Donate to this or that organization, just 20 cents a day, to feed this barefoot, dirty, hungry kid in Africa. In the comfort of our homes, we munch on potato chips, reclining horizontally on the couch, as the TV screen sneers with the footage of big-eyed children. They're dusty, cut-up; they have yellow eyes. From those sad commercials, I had gleaned that poverty equals misery.
So, I was challenged to diagnosis these mostly uneducated, maladied kids as POOR when they were laughing, singing, dancing, and happily braiding my hair. I taught them the hokey-pokey, and from then on, I'd hear demands to "faire okey-okey" many times a day. Under the stars at night, one of the kids would invariably whisper "chante," and I'd sing "You are my sunshine," "Itsy Bitsy Spider," or I'd draw on my extensive Beatles repertoire if I was feeling adventurous. With those kids, it was big, toothy smiles all around.
As a result of this ongoing singing and dancing extravaganza at Boundou Kodi, I successfully avoided internalizing the poverty of the place for the first days I was there. But around the same time that "okey-okey" started getting old, I began to really notice the maladies-- infected wounds, bad teeth, jaundiced eyes-- and the bigger maladies: the shoddy education system, the lack of healthcare. And everything started to resemble those remembered commercials from home-- the ones I'd watch from our green couch in the living room.
Now that je suis rentrée à Dakar, I don't know how to marry that experience to my life quotidienne. How do I contextualize my time in Boundou Kodi, which already feels other-worldly, with the realities of finding an internship for the summer and getting into my classes at Kenyon next year? It's a fact that I will soon be back in the U.S., and I will watch TV, and before long, I will be confronted with one of those commercials, asking me to give to children that remind me of kids I've known. And the question I want answered: what is the best way to give? Yes, after all this, I'm asking the same question I've always asked, the same question everyone else is asking. How can one person make a difference?
I stayed in the rural village of Boundou Kodi for three nights and four days. Je suis restée avec the chief of the village, Mamadi, probably 70 years old or so. Mamadi has four wives. Souleyeman, his oldest son, has two, and other of Mamadi's sons and daughters have wives with children. Needless to say, there were upwards of 25 kids who lived at the same compound as me. The architecture of the place was simple enough: 11 huts, cement and circular, with pointed, thatched roofs. Each wife has her own hut, and the children sleep wherever there's a bed.
Several times during those days, I had to actively stop myself from remembering those commercials we see on TV in the United States. Donate to this or that organization, just 20 cents a day, to feed this barefoot, dirty, hungry kid in Africa. In the comfort of our homes, we munch on potato chips, reclining horizontally on the couch, as the TV screen sneers with the footage of big-eyed children. They're dusty, cut-up; they have yellow eyes. From those sad commercials, I had gleaned that poverty equals misery.
So, I was challenged to diagnosis these mostly uneducated, maladied kids as POOR when they were laughing, singing, dancing, and happily braiding my hair. I taught them the hokey-pokey, and from then on, I'd hear demands to "faire okey-okey" many times a day. Under the stars at night, one of the kids would invariably whisper "chante," and I'd sing "You are my sunshine," "Itsy Bitsy Spider," or I'd draw on my extensive Beatles repertoire if I was feeling adventurous. With those kids, it was big, toothy smiles all around.
As a result of this ongoing singing and dancing extravaganza at Boundou Kodi, I successfully avoided internalizing the poverty of the place for the first days I was there. But around the same time that "okey-okey" started getting old, I began to really notice the maladies-- infected wounds, bad teeth, jaundiced eyes-- and the bigger maladies: the shoddy education system, the lack of healthcare. And everything started to resemble those remembered commercials from home-- the ones I'd watch from our green couch in the living room.
Now that je suis rentrée à Dakar, I don't know how to marry that experience to my life quotidienne. How do I contextualize my time in Boundou Kodi, which already feels other-worldly, with the realities of finding an internship for the summer and getting into my classes at Kenyon next year? It's a fact that I will soon be back in the U.S., and I will watch TV, and before long, I will be confronted with one of those commercials, asking me to give to children that remind me of kids I've known. And the question I want answered: what is the best way to give? Yes, after all this, I'm asking the same question I've always asked, the same question everyone else is asking. How can one person make a difference?
26.2.09
Saturday Night Fever.
Le samedi passé was the deuxieme anniversaire pour mon niveau, Babacar. Apologies for the Frenglish: what I mean to say is, my nephew Babacar celebrated his second birthday last Saturday. It was one of my favorite experiences of Senegal so far. I got to the party late because I had gone to Bandia, an animal reserve, with the SIT group earlier that day. My family had told me that they were having a little "fete" for Babacar, but the booming hiphop I heard from down the street was not what I expected.
I walked through the paint-chipped gate that functions as my front door, and entered my courtyard, where about 25 people were dancing like crazy. The music was a combination of American and Senegalese hiphop, mbalax, a more traditional Senegalese music form, and salsa. The guests were mostly neighborhood kids ranging in age from 8 to 20, and some of my adult relatives.
When I took out my camera to take pictures, I was bombarded with little girls who wanted their photo taken. They hung off my various limbs, ran in circles around me, and even after I put the camera away for the night, the girls had a vested interest in me, sitting on my lap and brushing my hair with their fingers. There was a table set up with an un-frosted cake, a couple of bottles of Coca-Cola, and some fruit. Though by American standards it was no excessive spread, people at the party repeatedly asked me to take their picture with the table-- not with their friends, not with Babacar, but with the table.
Babacar wandered around for most of the night, dancing in the minimalist way that he does, holding his fists above his head, and swinging his hips slowly from side to side, with a blinding smile. After everyone had left and I had consumed a lot of gateau, beignettes, and other treats, we had dinner at 11:30 or so, and opened Babacar's cadeaux, which were mostly too-large clothes. A great night.
Tomorrow, I depart for Kedougou, a two days' bus ride from Dakar. I will stay in a remote village near Kedougou with two other SIT-folk. The village is called Boundou Kodi, but other than that I'm unsure what exactly is in store for me! Donc, no internets for a while. (Mom, Dad, and friends-- no news is good news!) Au revoir, ba beneen yoon.
I walked through the paint-chipped gate that functions as my front door, and entered my courtyard, where about 25 people were dancing like crazy. The music was a combination of American and Senegalese hiphop, mbalax, a more traditional Senegalese music form, and salsa. The guests were mostly neighborhood kids ranging in age from 8 to 20, and some of my adult relatives.
When I took out my camera to take pictures, I was bombarded with little girls who wanted their photo taken. They hung off my various limbs, ran in circles around me, and even after I put the camera away for the night, the girls had a vested interest in me, sitting on my lap and brushing my hair with their fingers. There was a table set up with an un-frosted cake, a couple of bottles of Coca-Cola, and some fruit. Though by American standards it was no excessive spread, people at the party repeatedly asked me to take their picture with the table-- not with their friends, not with Babacar, but with the table.
Babacar wandered around for most of the night, dancing in the minimalist way that he does, holding his fists above his head, and swinging his hips slowly from side to side, with a blinding smile. After everyone had left and I had consumed a lot of gateau, beignettes, and other treats, we had dinner at 11:30 or so, and opened Babacar's cadeaux, which were mostly too-large clothes. A great night.
Tomorrow, I depart for Kedougou, a two days' bus ride from Dakar. I will stay in a remote village near Kedougou with two other SIT-folk. The village is called Boundou Kodi, but other than that I'm unsure what exactly is in store for me! Donc, no internets for a while. (Mom, Dad, and friends-- no news is good news!) Au revoir, ba beneen yoon.
22.2.09
Un Jour Typique.
Chaque jour, I wake up at 7:30 or 7:45, wrestle with my mosquito net to get out of bed, and face the dreaded decision: to take an ice-cold, insect-infested shower, or to forgo cleanliness for another day? Usually I chicken out of the icebath, get dressed, and eat breakfast standing up at the patio table with my sister, Maty. Breakfast is a half baguette loaded with butter, and a drink resembling coffee (a part of my Senegalese experience that I will NOT continue in the U.S.): hot water, a teaspoon of instant coffee, a teaspoon of powdered milk, and a sugarcube. Around 8:15, my friends Erin and Meghan who live around the corner from me stop by my house, and we walk to school together.
Classes at SIT: on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have French and Wolof classes-- both intensive languages courses jammed in before 12:30. On other days, I have Field Study Seminar, a very thought-provoking anthropology course, or Arts and Culture Seminar, in which we have a guest lecturer speak to us about an aspect of Senegalese art or culture (duh).
Lunch is great because we have from 12:30-3. There are a great number of Senegalese and non-Senegalese restaurants in the neighborhood, so my lunch options are varied. Sometimes I'll get yassa poulet (chicken, rice, yummy onion sauce), thieboudienne (a plate of fish, and the national dish of Senegal), a sandwich, or even, if I'm willing to splurge, a nice salad. Recently, I've been wanting something light, so I'll grab a yaourt, some fruit and nuts, and pretend to be health conscious.
After lunch, we have more classes or other activities, depending on the week. All last week, we had dance and djembe workshops in this time slot. School ends at 5, but I'll often stick around the SIT villa for an hour or so to check my email and hang out with American friends. I usually try to get home by 6, because 6-7 is a very important time for the Senegalese. This is when the most popular feuilletons (soap operas) are on: La Femme du Jardinier, and Ana. They are Brazilian, dubbed in French, succulent and infused with melodrama, and best of all, there's a new episode daily. And yes, I am addicted.
We usually eat dinner around 9 or 9:30: almost always fish and rice or millet, with a spicy, salty sauce. Good, but very rich, and it's impossible to just eat a little. After that, more TV, thé, and playing with Babacar. I often sit in the living room while everyone is watching the télé and write in my journal. By 10:30 or 11, je suis très fatigue, and I usually go to sleep by 11:30. Just another day in Dakar.
Classes at SIT: on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have French and Wolof classes-- both intensive languages courses jammed in before 12:30. On other days, I have Field Study Seminar, a very thought-provoking anthropology course, or Arts and Culture Seminar, in which we have a guest lecturer speak to us about an aspect of Senegalese art or culture (duh).
Lunch is great because we have from 12:30-3. There are a great number of Senegalese and non-Senegalese restaurants in the neighborhood, so my lunch options are varied. Sometimes I'll get yassa poulet (chicken, rice, yummy onion sauce), thieboudienne (a plate of fish, and the national dish of Senegal), a sandwich, or even, if I'm willing to splurge, a nice salad. Recently, I've been wanting something light, so I'll grab a yaourt, some fruit and nuts, and pretend to be health conscious.
After lunch, we have more classes or other activities, depending on the week. All last week, we had dance and djembe workshops in this time slot. School ends at 5, but I'll often stick around the SIT villa for an hour or so to check my email and hang out with American friends. I usually try to get home by 6, because 6-7 is a very important time for the Senegalese. This is when the most popular feuilletons (soap operas) are on: La Femme du Jardinier, and Ana. They are Brazilian, dubbed in French, succulent and infused with melodrama, and best of all, there's a new episode daily. And yes, I am addicted.
We usually eat dinner around 9 or 9:30: almost always fish and rice or millet, with a spicy, salty sauce. Good, but very rich, and it's impossible to just eat a little. After that, more TV, thé, and playing with Babacar. I often sit in the living room while everyone is watching the télé and write in my journal. By 10:30 or 11, je suis très fatigue, and I usually go to sleep by 11:30. Just another day in Dakar.
20.2.09
Increasing Confusion.
Although I learn new things every day I am here, I also feel that I know less each day. It has to do with looking more deeply into something I thought I had understood, and realizing that even the roots of my assumptions about people and culture were probably wrong.
Par example, for the last two nights my twelve year old brother, Abdou, has been showing me photographs of the family. He showed me a picture of a young girl; she seemed about 8 or 9. Abdou introduced her as "my little sister, Mariam," and moments later, my father referred to "his daughter, Mariam" in passing. Before that moment, I had heard no mention of even Mariam's name. Where is this little girl? Why does she not live with us? Obviously, my brain was flooded with questions, and the assumption that I had begun to understand the dynamics of my homestay family was toppled.
To even further confuse matters, Abdou showed me a photograph of my sister Maty sitting with my aunt and uncle. In his running, rapidly-spoken narration, Abdou said, "Here's Maty avec her parents." Her parents? Maty has always been introduced to me as my sister!
My current status: thoroughly bewildered, and brain-storming the most tactful way to ask these very necessary and very belated questions.
Par example, for the last two nights my twelve year old brother, Abdou, has been showing me photographs of the family. He showed me a picture of a young girl; she seemed about 8 or 9. Abdou introduced her as "my little sister, Mariam," and moments later, my father referred to "his daughter, Mariam" in passing. Before that moment, I had heard no mention of even Mariam's name. Where is this little girl? Why does she not live with us? Obviously, my brain was flooded with questions, and the assumption that I had begun to understand the dynamics of my homestay family was toppled.
To even further confuse matters, Abdou showed me a photograph of my sister Maty sitting with my aunt and uncle. In his running, rapidly-spoken narration, Abdou said, "Here's Maty avec her parents." Her parents? Maty has always been introduced to me as my sister!
My current status: thoroughly bewildered, and brain-storming the most tactful way to ask these very necessary and very belated questions.
17.2.09
Family Matters.
I've been living with the Leye family for about a week and a half now, and I've had a bunch of realizations. Most surprising and significant, I think, is that my Senegalaise family is more similiar to my American family than I could have imagined. Humanity and general human behavior is a factor that unifies families across the walls of culture and location, and the similarities between my families are more comprehensive and defining than the differences. However, some obvious differences between the Leyes and the Steins are worth listing.
Here, physical reprimands are certainly not uncommon. In fact, affection seems to be shared less, and in many cases, guarded as a close and personal secret. For example, everyone looks at my two year old nephew Babacar with such loving gleam in their eyes, but verbal interactions between my family and Babacar largely consists of reprimands or orders.
The way we eat: out of one big, shared bowl and often with our hands. More subtle differences in eating etiquette: if one pauses in eating, or puts the spoon down, everyone around the bowl urges that person (usually me), to continue eating. When finished eating, one stands up-- you never sit and wait for others to finish. We rarely speak at all during dinner, and we eat fast, usually in about 7-10 minutes. Also, my parents keep all of our food in their bedroom. Because our kitchen is just a small hut off the courtyard, I think the food is kept in the bedroom to protect it from animals or thieves.
Family roles are convoluted and inarticulate. For example, Penda, my 14-year old female cousin, lives with us, but I am still very confused about her familial role. Most middle-class Senegalaise families have a bonne (maid), and Penda seems to at least partially fill this role. She wakes up early and cleans, in addition to a bounty of other responsibilities. But Penda also attends school and is definitely a part of the family. Penda's role is definitely something for me to investigate.
In general, I am having a great time. That is not to say that this experience is not without hardship, and I am frequently homesick. My contradictory emotions come in waves.
Here, physical reprimands are certainly not uncommon. In fact, affection seems to be shared less, and in many cases, guarded as a close and personal secret. For example, everyone looks at my two year old nephew Babacar with such loving gleam in their eyes, but verbal interactions between my family and Babacar largely consists of reprimands or orders.
The way we eat: out of one big, shared bowl and often with our hands. More subtle differences in eating etiquette: if one pauses in eating, or puts the spoon down, everyone around the bowl urges that person (usually me), to continue eating. When finished eating, one stands up-- you never sit and wait for others to finish. We rarely speak at all during dinner, and we eat fast, usually in about 7-10 minutes. Also, my parents keep all of our food in their bedroom. Because our kitchen is just a small hut off the courtyard, I think the food is kept in the bedroom to protect it from animals or thieves.
Family roles are convoluted and inarticulate. For example, Penda, my 14-year old female cousin, lives with us, but I am still very confused about her familial role. Most middle-class Senegalaise families have a bonne (maid), and Penda seems to at least partially fill this role. She wakes up early and cleans, in addition to a bounty of other responsibilities. But Penda also attends school and is definitely a part of the family. Penda's role is definitely something for me to investigate.
In general, I am having a great time. That is not to say that this experience is not without hardship, and I am frequently homesick. My contradictory emotions come in waves.
10.2.09
Ups and Downs.
People often describe the abroad experience as a collection of extreme ups and downs; my experience has been synonymous with that characterization.
The Ups
I get along really well with the people in my program. SIT is great, and the villa where my classes are held is beautiful. I like the neighborhood I live in-- Point E-- a suburb about 20 minutes north of downtown Dakar. It's fairly calm, and there are a lot of students because the University Chiekh Anta Diop is in the area, too. I live very close to school; it's only about a five minute walk. My friend Erin lives just a couple houses away, and I spend a lot of time at her house drinking thé and watching the télé with her brother, Samba, and his friends. My little brother, Abdul, who is twelve years old, is very warm and enthusiastic. He's been communicating with me the most and showing me the ropes. I help him with his English homework; he helps me with my Wolof. Babacar, my sister's one and a half year old son, is absolutely adorable. I play with him a lot, and when I come home from school every day, he runs to me, hugs my legs, and demands to be picked up. Dakar is beautiful, smelly, chaotic, and overwhelming.
The Downs
My family speaks French with a very thick accent, and about half the time they speak Wolof. My communication with them is at a minimum, and I often find it difficult to gauge the attitudes of my family members towards me. My sister Maty is still fairly cold towards me, and my mother, too, doesn't speak to me much. I have bedbugs pretty badly, and when I tried to explain this to my host parents, they insisted that it's mosquito bites-- even though I have a mosquito net and there are no mosquitos out because it's winter here. The bites don't itch, but they are all over my legs. Basically, I'm sweaty, smelly, dirty, and covered in red dots. Super attractive.
Being here and diving into this foreign culture is a lot like becoming a child again. I still don't know exactly how to work the toilet at my homestay, and I've re-learned how to eat, shower, interact with people-- there are a host of cultural faux pas that I've been absorbing. It's very bad luck to say a child is cute, and pregnancy is never acknowledged. It's rude to look elders in the eye. I'm sure I am still committing faux pas right and left. Well, tomorrow, we get out of school early, so some friends and I are planning to go to the huge, overwhelming outdoor market downtown, eat lunch at Ali Baba's, this great fast food place, and then go to the beach. A bientot!
The Ups
I get along really well with the people in my program. SIT is great, and the villa where my classes are held is beautiful. I like the neighborhood I live in-- Point E-- a suburb about 20 minutes north of downtown Dakar. It's fairly calm, and there are a lot of students because the University Chiekh Anta Diop is in the area, too. I live very close to school; it's only about a five minute walk. My friend Erin lives just a couple houses away, and I spend a lot of time at her house drinking thé and watching the télé with her brother, Samba, and his friends. My little brother, Abdul, who is twelve years old, is very warm and enthusiastic. He's been communicating with me the most and showing me the ropes. I help him with his English homework; he helps me with my Wolof. Babacar, my sister's one and a half year old son, is absolutely adorable. I play with him a lot, and when I come home from school every day, he runs to me, hugs my legs, and demands to be picked up. Dakar is beautiful, smelly, chaotic, and overwhelming.
The Downs
My family speaks French with a very thick accent, and about half the time they speak Wolof. My communication with them is at a minimum, and I often find it difficult to gauge the attitudes of my family members towards me. My sister Maty is still fairly cold towards me, and my mother, too, doesn't speak to me much. I have bedbugs pretty badly, and when I tried to explain this to my host parents, they insisted that it's mosquito bites-- even though I have a mosquito net and there are no mosquitos out because it's winter here. The bites don't itch, but they are all over my legs. Basically, I'm sweaty, smelly, dirty, and covered in red dots. Super attractive.
Being here and diving into this foreign culture is a lot like becoming a child again. I still don't know exactly how to work the toilet at my homestay, and I've re-learned how to eat, shower, interact with people-- there are a host of cultural faux pas that I've been absorbing. It's very bad luck to say a child is cute, and pregnancy is never acknowledged. It's rude to look elders in the eye. I'm sure I am still committing faux pas right and left. Well, tomorrow, we get out of school early, so some friends and I are planning to go to the huge, overwhelming outdoor market downtown, eat lunch at Ali Baba's, this great fast food place, and then go to the beach. A bientot!
4.2.09
Mange, mange, mange.
The traditional way to eat in Senegal seems opposite to what we have been taught as Americans. Everything our parents told us not to do is moot; in fact, the Senegalese usually eat with their hands, with a group of people surrounding one big bowl. Using your right hand (never the left), you grab a small handful of food, typically rice and sauce and meat, and roll it in your palm with your fingers until it forms a sticky ball. Then, you raise the ball to your mouth and lick it in, tongue-ing your palm afterwards to minimalize the leftovers on your hand. To witness a group of twenty-year old Americans attempting to accomplish this task is perhaps the least graceful thing to be seen in the Western Hemisphere. If you eat slowly or you pause during the meal, it's normal for someone eating with you to urge you to continue by repeating "mange, mange, mange!" After you finish the meal, everyone licks their whole hands, suckling each finger. Pour éviter sticky hands, it is very important to wash; usually someone pours water from a bowl over your hands. The Senegalese have an interesting take on a toothpick/toothbrush -- they use a locally-grown stick, wide, soft and green, called soceu in Wolof and cure-dents in Francais.
Aujourd'hui I met my homestay sister, Mathy, for a brief meet and greet arranged by SIT. She is also twenty years old, but she has a one and a half year old kid. She was very quiet and reserved, but I hope she will open up to me later. Apparently, I also have another sister and a brother, Abdul and Mariam, and my host father is a professor à la université. As you can see, I've begun to adopt Franglais as my chosen langue. The Senegalese here speak what we call Frolof, a melange of French and Wolof. I've already had one Wolof class, so I hope to become Frolof competent soon enough! Baax na, ba beneen yoon.
Aujourd'hui I met my homestay sister, Mathy, for a brief meet and greet arranged by SIT. She is also twenty years old, but she has a one and a half year old kid. She was very quiet and reserved, but I hope she will open up to me later. Apparently, I also have another sister and a brother, Abdul and Mariam, and my host father is a professor à la université. As you can see, I've begun to adopt Franglais as my chosen langue. The Senegalese here speak what we call Frolof, a melange of French and Wolof. I've already had one Wolof class, so I hope to become Frolof competent soon enough! Baax na, ba beneen yoon.
2.2.09
It's "Freezing Weather"
Asalaamaleukum! My trip to Dakar began with turbulence and concludes with sun. After two days of jetlag, bumpy plane rides, and impressive meals from AirFrance, I'm finally here in Senegal. My group and I are at a hotel right outside of Dakar proper. It's sunny, about 65 or 70 degrees, and the breeze smells like ocean. Despite the warmth, this is winter for the Senegalese; everyone here is walking around in leather jackets and calling this the "freezing weather."
My understanding of Dakar is still limited; in fact, my ability to wrap my mind around this place has really only decreased since my arrival. On the walk to lunch, I tried to gauge the neighborhood-- lots of nice looking businesses, sand and trash everywhere. A beat-up taxi will drive by, followed by a beautiful new Mercedez Benz, followed by a horse-pulled wooden cart. In my estimation, about half of the people wear modern, Western clothes, and the other half wear traditional Senegalese garb. Bright patterns and big colors vie for the eye's attention. I saw two young boys carrying a large, brightly-painted wooden crate full of dozens of tiny birds.
The Americans I've met so for are great, really open-hearted, good-humored, and my group is embracing each other. The Senegalese I've met have a similar disposition: warm, friendly, talkative, complimentary. Lunch was thieboudienne, the Senegalese national dish. It's delicious-- spicy, seasoned rice with several different kinds of fish, none of which we could identify, and an array of root vegetables and cabbage.
Earlier today, I discovered that my homestay address is in downtown Dakar, Point E, a short walking distance from the SIT villa, where my classes will be held. Lots of the other kids are in the suburbs and will have to take a taxi or bus to class everyday, so I feel really lucky. Yup, that's exactly how I feel to be here. Really lucky. Will write more later!
My understanding of Dakar is still limited; in fact, my ability to wrap my mind around this place has really only decreased since my arrival. On the walk to lunch, I tried to gauge the neighborhood-- lots of nice looking businesses, sand and trash everywhere. A beat-up taxi will drive by, followed by a beautiful new Mercedez Benz, followed by a horse-pulled wooden cart. In my estimation, about half of the people wear modern, Western clothes, and the other half wear traditional Senegalese garb. Bright patterns and big colors vie for the eye's attention. I saw two young boys carrying a large, brightly-painted wooden crate full of dozens of tiny birds.
The Americans I've met so for are great, really open-hearted, good-humored, and my group is embracing each other. The Senegalese I've met have a similar disposition: warm, friendly, talkative, complimentary. Lunch was thieboudienne, the Senegalese national dish. It's delicious-- spicy, seasoned rice with several different kinds of fish, none of which we could identify, and an array of root vegetables and cabbage.
Earlier today, I discovered that my homestay address is in downtown Dakar, Point E, a short walking distance from the SIT villa, where my classes will be held. Lots of the other kids are in the suburbs and will have to take a taxi or bus to class everyday, so I feel really lucky. Yup, that's exactly how I feel to be here. Really lucky. Will write more later!
28.1.09
Countdown to Departure
My plane will depart from JFK at 11 PM on Saturday, January 31. After a too-long layover in Paris, I will finally be in Dakar, Sénégal.
À Bientot!
À Bientot!
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