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?
30.4.09
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.
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