"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.
25.3.09
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?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
