There's gotta be a better way to say Neighborlyness

I went to a peace conference last weekend in St. Louis. It was organized by our research center and sponsored by the US Embassy in Senegal. Sixty students from all over western Aftrica (and the US and Canada) attended to talk about conflict resolution in Africa. The theme was Dëkkëndo Jamma Ca Gën which translates roughly to “Good Neighborlyness is Preferable.” Yeah, I said it was a rough translation. Anyway there was a ton of press there and when I got back, my host-brother said he’d seen me studiously taking notes on TV. Ha. Could’ve been worse; could’ve been footage of me knitting our nametag chains together with pens, something that may or may not have actually happened on the 3rd day.



Anyway, it was awesome overall; I got to meet a ton of really cool people and explore St. Louis a little better than the last time we were there. One of the activities we had to do involved brainstorming in groups of 15 about different forms of conflicts and how to prevent/resolve them. When we got into groups the first line of order was to elect a president to oversee the activity and a reporter to act as a secretary and take notes of what everyone said. Of course the student in the 3-piece suit appointed himself President within the first 30 seconds, and it was all downhill from there. The rest of the men (ie almost everyone else in the room; the male to female ratio was about 8 to 1) spent the hour fighting to have their say, engaging in a competition to see who could use the most words to express the smallest amount of nothing.

The best part was that before we could even get to the questions, we would spend half an hour defining the terms in the question. This method of analysis was suggested, no, proposed, by a member of the committee who spent a solid 5 minutes explaining the idea and justifying it, pointing out the benefits of having solid definitions on which to base our brainstorming later. I’m sorry, but it’s brainstorming, for Pete’s sake, can we just get to it? What’s more, everyone insisted on introducing themselves, giving their nationality, major, school, major life accomplishments, favorite color etc before they made their comment, which interrupted the flow of the dialogue and was completely unnecessary in a room of 18 people wearing laminated nametags listing all of that information already (life accomplishments, and favorite color excepted). Suffice to say, the atmosphere was very formal. The fake-temporary president was addressed as “Mr/Ms President” and everyone requested his/her permission to speak… except when they interrupted each other politely to politely shut down someone else’s idea or politely suggest a change of topic. People seemed incapable of cutting to the chase even when they recognized the time limit. For example:

“Excuse me, [Introduction, Name, School etc] Thank you for hearing me out. I would just like to draw everyone’s attention to the time, because we’ve only answered the first two questions and we still have two more to complete and I do hope you haven’t forgotten that we only have one hour to answer all four of them. If you would look at your watches, you would see we only have 20 minutes left for the final questions. With Mr President’s permission, I would like to make a motion to move onto the next question, because as you can see, we’re almost out of time… …it’s only a suggestion.”

Inevitably, the next speaker would spend 5 minutes agreeing before actually moving on to the next question. The last day, a predominately male room decided that it would make them look really open-minded if they had a female president (their words, not mine). They stared at Kiersten and me. “No way.” I said. I’d been watching them stomp all over the President’s fake authority all weekend, challenging him, politely suggesting he wasn’t doing his job. Now they wanted to make themselves look good by forcing a girl to be the figurehead for their little testosterone party. “You can’t make us be president.” We said. They insisted. We argued for about five minutes before Kiersten gave up, “Fine, if you want a bad president, I’ll do it!” They cheered and we looked at each other incredulously. But she wasn’t a bad president- she was a frickin’ awesome president. The boys didn’t feel like they had to challenge her authority because Kiersten didn’t wave it over their heads like the previous presidents had. And when they got too long winded she told them, “Listen, can you cut to the chase? Because you’re repeating what the other guy said.” “Yeah, I’m getting there.” “Well, get there now.” “Yeah, I’m almost there.” “No, just say it! Get there now!” Although she may have been appointed for the wrong reasons, she was the best president we had all weekend.

Well, I don’t know where I was going with this. Mostly, I think it says something about conferences and committee work in general; it’s the same all over the world. I recognized all the same type-A leader personalities that I’d worked with on committees in the States. I was surprised at all the similarities.

Ginger with some conference members

Tatiana made friends

The kicker was that after 3 days of peace talks, we were supposed to have a Lutte between two of the participating schools. It never happened, but I’ll get to that in a minute. First, Senegalese lutte (literally: fight) called “làmb” in Wolof, is Senegal’s national sport. It is the only sport, apart from soccer that is ever shown on TV. I’ve seen a few luttes live, and it’s usually pretty exciting for about the first hour and a half and then I’m just tired but can’t sleep because everyone keeps trying to get me to dance.

The first weekend we were in Senegal, the study abroad program set up a trip to the big stadium in Dakar to watch traditional lutte. Unfortunately, no one had explained the rules, or even really what it was, and there was so much else going on in the way of singing and dancing on the field that I missed the first two matches before I realized they had started. Also, we were pretty jet-lagged and the whole ordeal lasted about 4 hours.

It’s played like this; two giant fighters square off, paw at each other’s arms for anywhere between 10 seconds and 4 minutes and then one of them makes a move to bring the other one down. The point is to get your opponent on all fours or lower- or on their back. Essentially it comes down to balance. You don’t have to pin them there for longer than a millisecond, you just have to get them down by any means possible; flip them, push them, pull them, trip them. Frequently they end up in this never-ending-mutual-headlock-of-doom, connected by the shoulders, bent over 90 degrees with their butts in the air, like some weird two-ended animal, trying to pull each other off balance. Some of the meaner ones will punch or tap on their opponent’s head, but mostly it’s wrestling standing up. It takes place in an arena of sand, and if one of them steps out of bounds, they have to start over.

The really interesting part is everything that happens before the lutte. The drumming begins before the fighters even show up and continues until everyone leaves. These guys have stamina, as do the singers, usually a group of 3 or more women, one singing the lead and the rest backing her up as they repeat the same refrain over and over. The music blares out over large speakers and the MC struggles with a temperamental microphone throughout the night. Fighters strut around the ring, dancing their warrior dance with two lines of 5 or 6 men behind them (back up dancers). They dance in front of the drummers grinning fiercely. Before the battle, many different rituals must be carried out. The fighter strips down to his lutte attire; what looks like a giant diaper. He is also adorned with many ‘gree-grees’ which are talismans and charms of sorts, tied around his arms, ankles, back, waist. Some are shoved into his diaper. Milk is poured over his head, and he makes a last-minute call to his Marabout**. The Marabout gives the fighter instructions about how to win. There are more traditions that I don’t really understand involving burying things, pouring water in the sand, etc, but the essential is that they all are supposed to help them win.

When I first got to Senegal I thought I was going to hate this sport. I was frustrated with all the build up; the dancing and singing and rituals all last forever while the actual match itself might be over in 20 seconds. But having been here for almost 5 months, I’m in love with it. What am I going to do when I go home this summer and it’s not on TV every night? Ginger and I were trying to lutte on the beach yesterday, and it’s harder than it looks.

Anyway, I was kind of bummed when we didn’t get to watch a lutte at the conference. It was supposed to happen. We showed up at the University in St. Louis in the evening around 8pm. They’d set up chairs and benches and a big street-lamp type light illuminated the arena. The drummers were set up, and we danced on and off for an hour, stomping our feet and wiggling our knees, opening and closing our legs, shaking our butts (Senegalese dancing is also harder than it looks). It was a lot of fun, and I was thinking that it was probably one of the last times I’d have the opportunity. But then we got tired. The fighters had shown up and some were strutting around like they were getting ready. The women had been singing for a few hours. Nothing. A large group of people, referees, peace conference coordinators, fighters were talking just behind the arena. Finally, the conference director came over to us. “Everyone back on the bus, we’re going back to the hotel.” What? We couldn’t tell if he was kidding. He wasn’t. Later, we found out that the St. Louis team had tried to enter a fighter in the competition who wasn’t a student. Apparently the same fighter had helped them win the last time and the Dakar team was fed up. There was a cash prize for the winning team and with money on the line, they couldn’t come to an agreement and we had to abort the whole plan. On the bus ride back to the hotel everyone was complaining, suggesting solutions. I smiled. Conflict resolution is complicated and you can’t always get what you want.

** Islamic religious leader by heritage who, in this case, tells the future, makes amulets, and survives on 'donations' in return for prayers and blessings.

Ndank Ndank

I’ve got less than 7 weeks left of this adventure and I’m starting to worry I won’t get to all the stuff I still want to do before my time’s up. There’s still a lot more of Dakar I want to explore, trinkets to buy, food to try. And I can’t go home until I’ve completely mastered Wolof!

Speaking of Wolof, it’s time to admit that it’s been months and I haven’t mastered it yet. Even in spite of all the Senegalese people telling me on a regular basis how easy it is. Okay, so maybe it’s not like learning Chinese, but still.

One thing I don’t think our program stressed enough to us before coming is how essential Wolof is for foreigners living in Dakar. I can’t tell you how many instant friends I’ve made just by greeting them with Assalamalekum and Nanga def? Throw in a few “jàmm rekk”s and an “alxamdulilay” and you’re golden. They love that you’re trying to understand their language, and coming from a white --typically French-speaking—person, it’s unexpected. It’s also important to know what people are saying about you. Or how they’re planning to rip you off at the market. Since my Wolof comprehension has improved, I’ve heard numerous people say, “She understands Wolof, we can’t talk in Wolof.” You get the best taxi fares when you can haggle completely in Wolof and you’re more likely to get change for your 10 000 francs in real money (as opposed to gum or mints) if you warmed them up first with some Wolof greetings.

Still, it doesn’t always work; vendors have thrown me for a loop before, asking me a few questions in their native language- Sereer, Peulh, Diola, Mandjak. As I try to figure out what they possibly could’ve just asked me in Wolof (ie; the wrong language), they’ll smile and say, “What? You don’t speak [insert language here]?”

I feel like my comprehension has come a long way, and I’m pretty comfortable with basic everyday phrases; greetings, “I’m going to take a shower,” “It’s hot/cold out” etc… I’m never completely lost when two Senegalese people are having a conversation. That is to say, I’m only mostly lost. My vocabulary is very limited and we’re still learning grammar; Wolof is not like any language I’ve ever tried to learn.

The weirdest thing from a romance language perspective is that in Wolof, you conjugate pronouns instead of verbs. This makes learning verbs pretty easy- there’s only one form of every verb, and it hardly ever changes. What do change are the I, you, he/she, we, they’s depending on the context.

I’ll try to give some examples using only the first person, to explain what I mean:

Maangi dem Dakar = I went to Dakar. (presentative)
Dem naa Dakar = I went to Dakar (completive, non-emphatic)
Dakar laa dem = It is to Dakar that I went (object emphasis)
Dama dem Dakar = I went to Dakar/ What I did was go to Dakar (explicative/verb emphasis)
Man, maa dem Dakar = It is me, who went to Dakar (subject emphasis)

Notice that not only does the pronoun change, but the word order in the sentence changes. To make this an incompleted you would add y to the end of maangi, laa, Dama, or maa (Maangiy dem Dakar = I am/will go to Dakar). Naa is only for completed actions or states of being.

Another quick example is negation (present tense):
Bëgguma ndox. = I don’t want water.
Bëgguloo mburu = You don’t want bread.
Bëggul nelow = He doesn’t want to sleep.
Bëgguñu jàng = They don’t want to study.
Etc…

The negative pronoun attaches to the end of the verb it’s negating.

Oh, and there’s so much more! But I won’t bore you. I’ll leave you with the single most important phrase any learner of Wolof could possibly know:

Ndank ndank mooy jàpp golo ci ñaay.

It means “Slowly (softly/carefully) one catches the monkey in the brush,” and it’s a proverb close to ‘slow and steady wins the race’ or something. Every Senegalese person ever knows this proverb, and usually, you only have to start it and they’ll finish it for you. I use it to mean that I don’t understand every single word in the Wolof language, but I’m getting there. Slowly but surely. Slowly.

Back from Casamance (Kaasamaans in Wolof)

The first batch of Casamance pictures are up here. We had a fantastic vacation and I've started some mini-comics to illustrate all the fun we had. I've been working on those instead of homework in the evenings, go figure. Coming soon!

Second part here!

St Louis Picture Post

We went on this trip a little bit ago but here are some pictures. I've been trying to get them uploaded to photobucket but it really is excruciating to wait for them all to load, so you'll have to forgive me. 

St Louis

Katie in St Louis.

fish market where they smoke, dry and salt fish into oblivion

That pile behind the girls is a mountain of fish heads, scales and skeletons.

When there are no playgrounds, use what you've got.

I'm so happy I got this shot. We were waiting outside some historical landmark and I got completely distracted by this little girl who came to yell at these boys. I just love that look from the boy on the left.

We went on a boat tour of a nature reserve. Pelican rock!

Here, if you look at the base of the tree- giant lizard. Someone know what it is?

Bus ride to the nature preserve.

The little white line on the left is Sara. The boat tour took awhile to get started so she went for a walk.

Centennial Baobab tree. 

Lindsay and Me on the boat tour. (It was a little sunny) She let me borrow some sunglasses that she was borrowing from someone else and they were so scratched I couldn't see anything out of them. But it worked well against the sun.

So yay! Pictures! I'm taking off to Casamance (the region of Senegal south of The Gambia) for about a week -we leave on a 15 hour boat ride tomorrow to get there. Happy Spring Break! 

Alxamdulilay

The Gamou is a Muslim holiday for Mohammad’s birthday. Every year thousands of Muslims get together in Tivaouane to celebrate by praying all night and teaching/speaking/learning about his life. It’s one of the two big pilgrimages the Senegalese Muslims partake in- the other one was a few weeks ago, and I couldn’t go.

We were slated to leave Sunday evening at 5pm but, as this is Senegal, we didn’t actually pull out until after 7pm. My host-sister, Fatimata, and I had put all our stuff in one small duffle, and Thierno had his backpack. I went with my host-siblings’ Dahira, which is a sort of Muslim youth-group. The two-hour delay was spent standing around and waiting for people to show up, for the luggage to be loaded, for snacks to be bought. The Senegalese don’t get stressed about deadlines like Americans do; things happen when they happen and it’s all a part of God’s plan. I’m getting used to it; Senegal has forced me to be patient in a way I never thought possible… I wonder if it will stick when I get home?

Anyway, we left at 7 PM and got to Tivaouane around 3 AM. It is important to understand that Tivaouane is a city about 56 miles away from Dakar. 56 MILES. Also, we took a car rapide. I sat in a church-van-bush taxi, crammed in with 30 other people for 8 hours. My butt fell asleep immediately. Pretty much the entire city of Dakar was going to Tivaouane, and they had all decided to go the night before – to avoid the rush – and consequently, we all spent hours suffering through a never-ending traffic jam on the only road that leads in and out of Dakar. (Later, we learned that my host-mom had come the next day and it had only taken 3 hours). Vendors walked up and down the road throughout the trip offering peanuts, beignets and oranges. Crowds of people lined the streets waiting for taxis and car rapides heading to Tivaouane. Someone bought mandarins for everyone, and we shoved the peels through the many holes in the floor or tossed them out the window. I had to pee about 2 hours in and then for the rest of the trip. We pulled over once because one of the other girls decided she wasn’t going to make it – and everyone jumped out to pee in the bushes. I debated too long about the possibility of me peeing all over myself or getting pickers/bug bites on my ass in the dark and missed my chance.

We arrived outside the city around 2 AM and sat for an hour in a parking lot waiting for someone to get paperwork that would allow us into the city. Got to our destination at 3 AM; a large unfinished concrete house that a friend of a friend of a friend was letting the youth-group use for free. They led us onto the open roof and into some concrete rooms without doors. The girls and boys were separated, and we put down mats and some thin foam mattresses before I passed out with Fatimata on a twin-sized mat we shared. I was exhausted, cold and starving, though I’d been able to pee in the squat-toilet downstairs, which relieved my most urgent discomfort. I got up once to run downstairs thinking I had to throw up, but after some unsuccessful attempts, laid back down and tried to will the nausea away. I hadn’t eaten more than a tiny Clementine and a few crackers in the past 12 hours. At 4:30am I was awakened to Fatimata telling me it was time for dinner. Wha? I struggled to open my eyes in the harsh light. Sure enough, a few women were bringing in platters of food. There was goat or sheep meat in onion sauce and fries with mayonnaise. The girls gathered round the trays and we sluggishly picked at the cold fries. Looking at the piles of mayonnaise made me gag, but I ate some fries, and some meat- still feeling sick but my body wanted the food. I finished all the food in my designated area of the platter and pretended I wasn’t still starving until the other girls asked and then insisted and pushed more food towards me. I started giggling and then laughed pretty hard. “It’s 4:30 am,” I said. “We’re having dinner.” I was pretty crazy at this point- and laughed some more, not caring that they didn’t think it was funny. Possibly this is a normal occurrence at Gamou. I passed out again. They woke us up at 7:30 AM to start the day.

We had breakfast of bread and butter or chocolate and powdered milk and Nescafe. I never drink Nescafé because I’m not a coffee fan, but all of my coffee-drinking American friends have assured me that, whatever it’s called, it’s not coffee. No amount of sugar makes it drinkable, and most of them have switched to exclusively soft-drinks for their caffeine fix in Senegal. We were not by any stretch the only people staying in this house (easily over 100), and everyone waited in line for bucket showers in one of the two bathrooms. I left with Fatimata and 4 of the other girls to explore the city and visit the Mosques.

Walking through the city was insane. It was hot and sandy- without the nice ocean breeze I was used to in Dakar – and there were people everywhere. Vendors had set up booths all along the streets, taking advantage of the influx of people to the city. I followed the girls, and for the first half an hour was terrified of losing them in the crowds. Fatimata grabbed my hand several times to keep from losing me. It was packed in such a way that I almost fell a few times when my top half got pushed faster than my bottom half could move. As we neared one of the Mosques, a little girl tugged on my tunic and motioned that I should cover my head. Two seconds later, Fatimata was pulling her scarf around her head and told me to make sure that my bangs weren’t peeking out. Easier said than done- my hair was slippery and the scarf kept sliding back. I hadn’t brought any pins, so it was a constant battle throughout the day that ended with me holding it by my neck. We found the line for the women’s entrance to the first Mosque and waited, pressed close together. Beggers walked/hobbled up and down the lines asking for money. Twice, Fatimata told me to give some change- once for a woman with triplet toddlers, and once for a guy without a nose. As we neared the entrance, I began to worry. There were coordinators everywhere- were they going to let me in? I asked her if I should wait outside and she said yes, probably, but we were getting pushed closer, and someone was making us take off our shoes and before I realized it I was inside. Fatimata couldn’t pray because she was on her period, so she waited with me off to the side as the other girls kneeled. The men were at the front, the women in the back and it was pretty chaotic with everyone coming and going. I figured I already looked out of place and so I didn’t risk taking pictures and making a scene.

We left and walked for a bit, until we came to another Mosque. The line for this one was even longer and circled around a smaller building before heading in to the women’s entrance. We found the end and waited. I was starting to sweat a lot. More beggars. We were almost in when Fatimata and I got pulled out of line by a coordinator. He said something to her and pointed to her legs. She was wearing pants. We were both wearing long dress-length tunics with slits up the sides and loose matching pants. She was understandably upset- this was her first time at Tivaouane and she’d been looking forward to going to the Mosques. She pleaded with the guy but he was firm. Then she pointed to me, and reached for my headscarf. As soon as it slid from my head, a little boy ran up to me frowning, motioning that I should cover it. I grabbed it back, while she kept talking. Then she took it again and wrapped it around her waist like a skirt. “I’ll be right back,” she said, “Stay here.” I stood there. That little boy was back, frowning, pointing, talking in Wolof. I indicated that I didn’t have anything to cover it with. And I couldn’t very well distance myself from the Mosque because I would never find Fatimata again, and I didn’t know where the house was. I looked around- everyone was staring. More people pointed, undoubtedly wondering who was the stupid foreign girl who’s disrespecting God by shamelessly displaying her hair. Well they were wrong, there was shame. I felt exposed. Finally the boy went to talk to a coordinator who then had me stand with another girl waiting for her friends to get out; she gave me part of her scarf so we could both huddle underneath. I was pretty annoyed at Fatimata for leaving me and I snatched back my headscarf when she came out, but she didn’t say anything.



We walked around a little more, stopped at a friend’s house to drink bags of water, and then headed back for lunch. I kept my head covered for the rest of the walk and then any time we went out after that because 1) I’d forgotten sunblock and was starting to feel crispy and 2) it was a little harder to tell I was white and I was tired of hearing “Toubab! Toubab!” everywhere I went.

Everyone napped in the afternoon and we ate some coconut, which was a popular food throughout the weekend. I talked to a girl staying in the house who boasted that she had American boyfriend. Later in the conversation it became clear that this “boyfriend” is older, married, has children her age, and lives in D.C. “But he calls me almost everyday,” she insisted. Hope springs eternal.

The evening of the Gamou, most people go to the Mosques and sit outside praying all night, listening to the Marabouts talk. Fatimata had been planning to do this, and I was debating whether I cared about observing this cultural event enough to be miserable all night. I really just wanted to sleep, but I had come so far, I felt I should take advantage of the opportunity. I struggled to make a decision while she was dressing (warm – it’s cold at night!) and the other girls were telling me how cold it was, and how I would have to be there until 5 am praying. Ugh. They were going to stay there. I wavered. Then Fatimata said, “I was only joking, we’re not going to go all the way to the Mosque.” “What?” I swear, I still don’t get some of these Senegalese ‘jokes.’

Instead, I dressed up in the Bubu Khady had lent me, wrapped my head and followed Fatimata and the other girls into another room of the house to pray. They all had their prayer beads, and I noted different types. The boys all had larger ones, most of them made of wood and in dark colors, while many of the girls had small white or pale colored beads made of plastic. They sat on opposite sides of the small concrete room, with the leader in the middle of the men. A woman brought in a pot of coals and added incense. A man in the corner was making some sort of drink in a teapot on a burner. The leader told them to do X prayers X number of times and they all muttered, flicking through the beads, keeping count. They seemed to be going too fast to churn out a full 200 prayers in the few minutes it took, but what did I know? They did this for different prayers for about an hour, and I tried to pray or meditate for a while but then got sleepy and bored and started reciting Shell Silverstein poems in my head. We took a break for dinner (more meat), but I had choked down cold gritty couscous earlier when I thought we were going out all night without dinner, and now I wasn’t hungry anymore. Then more praying. The leader started talking about Mohammed in Wolof and I stayed until 2 AM, but then I was so tired I couldn’t stand it. I figured I was allowed to leave when a few of the other girls left to go to bed.

Back in the room, I was just about to pass out when one of the leaders came in with warm milk (the drink that man had been preparing on the gas stove). It was slightly green, and tasted vaguely of sweet toothpaste-flavored cream, but he said it would help me sleep.

The next morning I woke up around 9 AM because they were serving breakfast. It was Lakh and I was a little apprehensive as I had heard more than a few horror stories about this concoction from friends. Turns out, millet-lait caillé (literally: curdled milk)-sugar isn’t all that bad; it’s the slimy appearance and texture that’s the tricky part; I tried not to look at it.

A few hours at 11:30 AM they served us breakfast again; bread and butter or chocolate spread and powdered milk. I stopped trying to understand what was going on and just ate. People were saying that the return trip to Dakar was going to take even longer than the 8-hour trek to Tivaouane, and I was scarfing all the food available to me in an effort to stave off starvation this time around. I was told we were going to leave before noon but in true Senegalese fashion, we didn’t take off until around 5 PM.

In the meantime I talked to some more youth group members. The people on the trip with us were all very nice; I didn’t get a marriage proposal all weekend and it was refreshing to be around boys who weren’t all asking me if I had a husband. One of the guys refused to speak to me in French, which was good Wolof practice on the one hand, but also embarrassing. No matter how much Wolof I understood and could respond to, there always came a point where I would get lost and end up staring blankly wondering if what he was saying were actual words. My face got red, I started sweating (which was not cool at the time because I had been wearing the same clothes for 3 days and they already stank) and would finish by saying “Xam uma” or “Dégg uma” (I don’t know, I don’t understand). It’s worse when there are a bunch of fluent Wolof speakers sitting around watching our [failed] conversation. He tried to get me to explain the plot of the book I was reading (The Princess Bride) in Wolof, and I laughed. It would be hard enough to do in English. Later he practiced his English, and for a minute, I was content to relax in the comfort of my native language. He said he’s trying to get a Visa to go to the US to be a summer camp counselor. I wished him good luck- Visas to the US are absurdly difficult to obtain in Senegal.

Around 4 PM I went with a few girls to a friend of a friend’s house (it’s all about who you know!) to eat some “lunch” before we left because at this point we still didn’t know when the bush taxi was going to show up. I had some spicy chebujën (fish and rice). No really, I choked on my first bite because of all the pepper. But I kept shoveling rice in my mouth; it’s all there was and I wasn’t about to be hungry later. We sucked on bags of water on the way back and returned to find the car rapide loaded up and waiting for us in front of the house.


They sang prayers all the way home and I pretended they were to keep the roads clear. It seemed to work – the ride took about 4 hours. But it was loud. It was loud, and crazy, and Fatimata kept hitting my leg when she laughed. I was so tired, sunburned, sweaty and stressed; all my people-filters were down and I stared straight ahead for all 4 hours, thinking about my clean room at home, about a shower, about how I was never, ever going to have to do this again. Dakar has never been so comforting than when we entered the city and I started recognizing landmarks. I think somewhere in the back of my mind there had been a genuine fear that I’d never see it again. I gave everyone a big kiss at home; I felt like I’d survived a month lost in the desert, not 3 days camping 56 miles away from Dakar. Dibor had asked me to bring her back a coconut and I’d found her a pretty big one. She was so pleased, though she was concerned that it was so big. “How much did it cost?!” (350CFA = approx. 70 cents). Khady whined that I hadn’t brought her anything and I almost flipped; Dibor had specifically asked me for something and I hadn’t even thought to bring Khady anything. It took several minutes explaining with Maman Ndiaye’s help for her to accept that I didn’t do it on purpose. She decided that she had been joking and that she really didn’t care. Ugh. Whatever. I went to bed.

Two days later I left for a weekend trip with WARC to St. Louis, 4 hours north of Dakar. It has been fantastic to be able to see different parts of Senegal and I don’t regret any of these adventures, but I’m still making up sleep from the first one.

Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, "Let's Bounce!"

Yesterday after a 3-hour Wolof class, learning helpful phrases like “am na ku soxla Tiffany” (there is someone who needs Tiffany) and “mën naa ko ko jaay” (I can sell her to him), I followed 7 of my classmates in search of a stress reliever. We found it in the form of a giant trampoline playplace on the ocean.

I’d seen it before on our walks to the local Toubab Market, as we call it. “Toubab” means white person, or foreigner, and there is a store not far from the West African Research Center (WARC) where we have class, that caters to Dakar’s Toubab population. Inside there are shelves of cookies, crackers, cheese, jams, nutella, personal hygiene items including toilet paper! (shout-out to Karin; thanks!) and school supplies all with fixed prices! No haggling allowed! Also, they have change, which is a rare commodity in Dakar.

Anyway, TrapolinePlace was in sight, all that stood in our way was La Corniche (main road along the ocean). Senegalese traffic can be pretty intimidating... it took about 15 minutes.

Crossing the street was, as Ginger put it, like a real-life version of Frogger. Four lanes of traffic, with a thigh-high concrete median running down the middle. Sara dove in first, with Baird close behind. They stood on the median, as cars whizzed by. I ran at the next opening, and almost died trying to jump up onto the median in my skirt – cars honked, and glanced over to Sara and Baird who had already made it to the other side. I quickly joined them and we looked back at the group of Toubabs on the other side, eyeing the traffic nervously. Leah and Ginger made it next, posing like models on the median. Baird and I joked about how it would make a good challenge for next season of America’s Next Top Model Dakar. I can hear Tyra now, “Fierce eyes!” “Models have to be ready for anything!” Anyway, when we finally had everyone together, we turned to face our target. There were 8 large rectangular trampolines with cushion dividers. An exercise group was doing synchronized yoga in a circle a little way away. For 500 CFA a person we got 15 minutes (actually closer to half-an-hour? Longer?) of jumping, bouncing, flips and mad fun. We each bounced in our section until we tired of that and took turns highjacking the trampolines of others. I’d been the only genius who’d worn a skirt that day, but I wrapped my shawl around my waist and tied it again between my legs to make some makeshift bloomer/pants and it worked out fine.

Someone discovered that if you stopped for a minute and tried to jump on the wooden plank in the center, it felt as though your legs were made of lead. High on exercise-hormones, I found this hilarious. We all vowed to return, and maybe even make it a habit – one to replace our afterschool French fry addiction.

I told the family about it when I got home, and Dibor laughed, “That’s for little kids.” And also Toubabs.



Cristina didn’t bounce, but she took millions of beautiful pictures and we all love her for it.
!

Some things never change.

Picture post! (photo by Katie)

This is Cinéma Africain. Sometimes it's sort of interesting. Sometimes I help it along.

That XXXL Bubu does wonders for your figure.

According to most of the statistics I’ve seen 95-98% of Senegal is Muslim which means I celebrated Mardi Gras with 2-5% of the population on Tuesday. One of the girls at WARC threw a party at her host-family’s house and invited everyone she knew including the people who work in the shops nearby and random folks in the street. This is how it’s done here.

So class got out at six that day, and after a visit to the Ouakam Boulangerie for cream-filled beignets, I ran home to drop off my bag and get ready. Around 8 was waiting for Baird to come meet me at my house, and I had just gotten out of the bathroom, flushed the toilet and the power went out. For a moment, I considered the possibility that I had caused a power outage by flushing the toilet, and then stumbled down the hall back to my room. My phone has a flashlight on it, but it’s funny how you suddenly forget where you put things when you can no longer see where it might be. I fumbled around blindly for a few minutes and found it as Fatimata called down, “Alice, the power’s out! Come upstairs!” I pulled out a random tanktop, put it on backwards, took it off, put it on right side out and ran upstairs.

“Don’t run Alice! What if you fall on the tile?” Maman Ndiaye scolded. I’d made the mistake of telling her when my friend fell down the stairs and twisted her ankle a few days ago and now she is paranoid I’m going to meet the same fate. I’m no longer allowed to get anywhere faster than a crawl.

Upstairs they’d lit candles, and Maman Ndiaye was carrying around an oil lantern that was throwing monster shadows up on the cement walls. I reminded them that I was going to the Mardi Gras party. “Is that what you’re wearing?” Dibor asked. “Uh, I guess not?” “Are you going to go dressed as a boy?” Fatimata asked.

Apparently, Mardi Gras, like Muslim New Year are holidays that are celebrated by dressing up in outrageous costumes very similar to Halloween. One of the favorite costume ideas here is to dress as the opposite sex. I find this highly amusing in a country where homosexuality and cross-dressing outside of these specific social events is forbidden and even dangerous.

I explained that I didn’t have any boys clothes, and Maman Ndiaye immediately assured me, “Oh, Amadou will lend you some!” Amadou was sitting in the corner playing the snake game on his cell phone. She asks him about it in Wolof and after a minute he responded in French, “It’s for kids. Dressing up is for kids.” There was some arguing in Wolof. Then he said, “I’ll lend you something really good!”

Baird rings the doorbell, and I run down the two flights of stairs to answer it. When I get back up to the second floor, the whole family is waiting, and they have one of Amadou’s Senegalese Bubus (pronounced Boo-Boo). I held up a pair of giant clown-sized pants. I could have fit my whole body in one of the legs, but they were all chanting, “Put it on, put it on!” So it went over my jeans. Then came the tunic. The shirt fell to below my knees and was very much like wearing a brightly-colored tent. “You need a scarf!” Fatimata ran to her room and produced a black one to go around my neck. Maman Ndiaye emerged with a little white round hat and placed it on my head. They gave another one to Baird. “Today you change your look!” she beamed. He’d opted not to dress as a woman, but was wearing his Senegalese outfit and the tiny hat definitely completed the ensemble.

They all stood around complimenting us, ushered me in front of the mirror and held their candles up for me to look. Amadou was grinning. “I’ll lend it to you to wear on Friday sometime” he said. (on Fridays, the Muslim holy day, everyone wears traditional Senegalese dress). “No you won’t!” Fatimata interrupted, “That’s a boy’s outfit!” “But it’s really pretty!” he insisted, “It looks really good on her.” “Alice, don’t listen to him, it’s for boys, you can’t wear that on Friday!” She rolled her eyes. At this point, he turned to her and snapped something in Wolof and they continued arguing about it loudly until we were out the door.

We decided to taxi to the party because it was too far to walk and got one for 1000 francs CFA on the third try, which made us pretty proud. It helped that I let Baird (the Man) do all the haggling, and that he did it in Wolof. I like to think that our outfits were also a factor, but it was dark so that might just be me. Also, our taxi was brand new with seatbelts and a working odometer. It was crazy.

Baird and I in Senegalese dress..

The party was awesome and there were a ton of people there. Only a few others had dressed up – and I only saw one other cross-dresser (Senegalese). Actually, it kind of reminded me of that scene in Mean Girls where Lindsay Lohan shows up to the Halloween party dressed as an ugly zombie bride only to discover that everyone else is wearing slutty playboy bunny outfits. Okay, it wasn’t really like that because I felt pretty cool in my authentic Senegalese Mardi Gras costume. One of the other girls had worn her sister’s Bubu. There was lots of good food; chicken, pizza on baguettes, green beans and rum punch. Nom. We got home around Midnight.

*****

Yesterday evening (Ash Wednesday) we were eating dinner and someone asked me if I’d gone to mass that day. When I said no, there was some arguing in Wolof before Fatimata asked, “Aren’t you Catholic?” Pause. “Wait, are you Protestant? Protestants don’t believe in God, right?”

In general, the Senegalese are familiar with three religions: Islam, Animism and Catholicism. I know a lot of the other American students have been frustrated with Senegal’s ignorance of the different branches of Christianity; they tend to lump all Christians in as Catholics. For the most part, the Muslims and Catholics get along fine here, but being atheist or agnostic is really not okay.

“Why didn’t you go to mass today? You didn’t fast either? If you believe in God you have to do what he says!” they all scolded me.

I tried to explain about the different types of Christians again, and they sort of nodded, and seemed to accept that as a response. Oh, boy.

This orange costs 10 x 5

I know I'm way behind on posting and I still don't really have anything substantial put together so here's a little trivia until the next time I have internet : )

In Wolof class we touched briefly on the monetary system in Senegal and it's confusing and long and pretty awesome so I thought I'd share. Mostly they use French numbers because Wolof numbers are based on 5. For example:

1 benn
2 ñaar
3 ñett
4 ñeant
5 juróom
6 juróom-benn
7 juróom-ñaar
8 juróom-ñett
9 juróom-ñeant
10 fukk
11 fukk ak benn
etc…

Counting is pretty straightforward, if a little long, but the money is a little more complicated. Because the smallest Senegalese coin is 5 francs (CFA) called a dërëm, a 50 franc coin is called fukk dërëm (10 x 5) or often, just fukk. Ñaar fukk when you’re talking about money is 100 francs. Our Wolof professor, Sidy, explained that to say 975 francs is Teemeer (500) ak juroom-neant fukk (9 x (10 x 5)) ak juroom (5 x 5). Right. This is why they prefer to use French numbers when counting more than 5 of anything.

Alright, that's all I've got. ba beneen yoon (until next time)

You’re cordially invited to dinner with the Ndiaye Family

“Kaay Lekk!” Fatimata calls, “Come Eat!” Dibor, the maid (21 years), brings out a large aluminum platter and places it on the mat in the middle of the living/dining room floor. I kneel down, in what has become my usual spot between Fatimata and Dibor. “Are you going to use your hand tonight or are you tired?” someone asks. “Spoon,” I respond, heading for the bowl of silverware. Everyone’s settled in, and forming balls of rice with their hands and popping them into their mouths. The boys are using spoons and sitting on little stools, while the women all sit on the ground, using their right hands. They joke in Wolof and I stare, trying to pick out the few words I know. Rice, vegetables and fish in various combinations are served for lunch and dinner almost everyday. Tonight it’s red rice with red sauce. Fish bones and inedible bits are picked out or spat out onto the mat. The boys eat fast, spilling rice on the floor as the spoon travels from the platter to their mouths. Fatimata picks apart the fish and breaks off pieces of carrot and sweet potato, depositing chunks in front of me. “Lekkal, Alice, Lekkal!” Eat, Eat. She squeezes some lime juice onto the rice in front of everyone in turn.

The other day some sort of spicy pepper juice found its way into the rice in front of me and I ate it without realizing. I heard them talking about it but didn’t understand the significance until they were all staring at me. My nose was dripping and my face was red. “Alice ate the pepper,” Fatimata observed, “Look, she’s sweating!” “Why didn’t you say anything?” Khady demanded. “You’re being too polite.” Okay, but it’s not about being polite. We eat out of a communal bowl of rice; how am I supposed to know that the rice in front of me tastes different from the rice in front of anyone else? The boys were amused, but I was a little embarrassed which didn’t help my red face.

Now I’m starting to be full, but I doubt they’ll let me stop eating, so I slow down. When Dibor and Maman Ndiaye leave, I hazard a “suur na” and try to get up. Fatimata grabs my wrist. “Eat, Alice,” and places more fish in front of me. “No, really, suur na!” I say. ‘Just eat this then.” She pleads, and I shovel another spoonful in my mouth. Feeling thoroughly stuffed, I get up and place my spoon in the sink. Fatimata continues eating with the older boys until they’ve cleaned the bottom of the platter. She eats like a horse but you wouldn’t know it; she’s got a slight frame, about my height and probably 20 pounds lighter. She and Khady frequently engage in “who’s the fattest daughter?” contests with me as the judge. At first I tried to stay neutral, but I after a lot of nagging I conceded that Khady was ever so slightly bigger, though she’s also 9 years older. “I knew it!” Fatimata frowned, “I’m too little.” Now when they ask I just grin. “Me! I’m the fattest!” And they nod. It’s true.

The boys finish eating and sit back down in front of the television or listening to the mp3 player. Khady goes back to her studying (she’s in med school) and Fatimata helps Dibor clean up and prepares Papa Ndiaye’s dinner. He eats by himself downstairs on the couch and it’s always one of two things; 2 mini-baguettes and 3 fried eggs or 2 mini-baguettes and 3 fried fish.

If it seems like I’ve been talking about food a lot lately it’s because it’s constantly on my mind. I was teaching Dibor some English a few days ago and the first thing she wanted to know how to say was how to call someone to eat. It wasn’t “my name is,” or “thank you,” it was “come eat.” The first phrase I learned in Wolof was “jërejëf” (thank you), followed immediately by, “suur na,” (I’ve had enough to eat!) and “khiff na,” (I’m hungry). In Wolof class we learned a stronger version of ‘suur na,’ which is “dama suur,” and it provoked half an hour of questions about what else we could say to get them to stop forcing food on us. Sidy, our Wolof professor, says that Senegalese women are expected to gain weight after marriage or else people will think they’re unhappy or their husband doesn’t treat them well. It’s strange though, because culturally, bigger is beautiful, but a lot of what is shown on television are American TV shows and music videos and Telenovelas from South America, all of which depict beauty as the opposite. Talk about mixed messages. And maybe it’s the food, but I haven’t seen very many ‘big’ girls around.

Also, a big concern is that I might lose weight during my stay, and that my family would feel responsible. I’m supposed to go home fat[ter] so that everyone knows I had a good time and was well taken care of. Talk about pressure! At first I thought the lack of diet and exercise talk was a nice change from American college life, but now I’ve come to understand that it’s the same pressure in a different form; more ridiculous beauty norms. Also, fish and rice being the staple food here, a curvaceous body might be just as hard to attain as a stick figure in McDonald’s Land.

Well, I’m not about to make them feel bad, the food’s delicious… good thing I brought some skirts with elastic waistbands!

Hot and Cold

This morning was the first day I got to sleep in all week, and consequently the only morning I’ve taken a shower. I’ve been taking them in the afternoon because hot water doesn’t exist unless you want to boil it yourself, and I’m not about to get up that early. Daily showers are necessary here not only to remove the layer of dust and dirt that accumulates on your body just walking around (hmm… or sitting still) but also out of respect for cultural norms. Hygiene is very important; one time I teased Khady about not having showered that day and, though I explained that I was only joking, she immediately ran to wash up. Almost every time I enter the house I have to dash to the bathroom to rinse my feet of all the dirt (even though we still wear sandals around the house). And when I forget, Fatimata reminds me. Sometimes I do pout a little because the dirt seems to show more on my pale feet; it’s starting to get ground in so my heels are stained brown.

There’s an actual shower head in my bathroom, but the water that comes in is ice-cold as opposed to the tepid-cold water that comes out of the spigot next to the toilet. If I let it run for a minute or two, it warms up a little more. There’s a large bucket underneath to fill with water, and a little pitcher I use to ladle it on myself. So far, I haven’t made it through a bucket-bath without shivering, but I’m sure when it heats up I’ll be grateful for the cold water. For the time being, I start with my feet and work my way up…

Classes finally started, and I remembered all of a sudden that I was here to study and not just to futz around Dakar spending money. Even though most things are cheaper here (aprox. 470 CFA francs = 1 US dollar), as one of my friends, Baird, says it’s just too colorful to be taken seriously especially when working in units of hundreds and thousands. Combine these factors with our undisguisable Rich White Tourist appearance and I guess I can’t be surprised that we been spending money. On the other hand, we are getting better at haggling, something that doesn’t come naturally to most of us, but is the only way to purchase anything in Senegal. Anything from taxi rides to fruit to clothing; it’s all got a price, and it’s never the first one they tell you… or the fifth. It’s tiring sometimes when you just want to buy it already, and at a fair price, but there’s nothing like the satisfaction of a purchase well haggled. One of the other students, Ginger, has gotten really good at it; she talked one vender down to something like 1/10 the initial price of a wooden turtle.

Ha, I just had lunch and, because I have class this afternoon, I ate by myself- earlier than everyone else. One of the great things about eating out of a giant communal bowl is that you never feel guilty for failing to finish your plate or not eating certain vegetables; someone else will eat it for you. So when Maman Ndiaye put a giant bowl of red rice, fish and vegetables in front of me, the pressure was on. I ate as much as I possibly could, and finally, feeling like I was going to burst if I put another ball of rice in my mouth, I said “suur na!” (I’ve had enough to eat!). “Suur na?” she echoed, walking over, “I have to come over to inspect,” she explained, “If Alice has eaten a lot, it is good.” I was worried briefly, especially when the maid frowned, but then, “Ahh! Good! You’ve eaten well!” Whew… these are not the sorts of tests I was expecting when I signed on for this trip.

PS I’m putting up some more pictures. They’re kind of old- still from the first week or so. We went on quite a few field trips. Hopefully I’ll have some pictures of the house and the family up next week!
Miss you!

Lékkal Bou Baakh!

Lékkal Bu Baakh is Wolof for “faut bien manger” in French and is awkwardly translated to “it’s necessary to eat well” in English. At mealtime, my entire family crowds around a large circular platter full of rice or couscous and chunks of meat, carrots and potatoes. Usually they eat with their right hands (the left hand is used to clean intimate parts of the body), but I’ve noticed that when it’s really crowded, some of them grab spoons. The first day, my host-mom had me try with my hand, but it soon became clear that forming rice balls with one hand and getting them into my mouth without making a total mess is not something that comes naturally to me. Fatimata kept correcting me, “No, no, watch me! Watch me! Do like I do!” And I would laugh and spill more rice on myself. My host-mom and sisters, broke off pieces of fish and carrot and pushed them in front of me. “Lékkal bu baakh! Faut bien manger! Eat, eat, eat!” Since then, I’ve always been given a spoon. My host-mom says that I eat too slowly with my hand to keep up with everyone, and she’s worried I won’t get enough to eat. She’s probably right. We’ve been slowly introducing fresh vegetables to my diet, and I’m still not allowed to have rice for lunch and dinner on the same day (As I already mentioned, she worries about my digestive system). And while sometimes it can be kind of annoying to have her prepare something special for me, I really do appreciate the concern; some of the other students have already complained of stomach trouble, and so far I’ve been fine.

For breakfast every morning I have powdered milk and sugar and part of a baguette with a nutella-like chocolate spread that’s made with peanuts. Everyone else has Nescafé (instant coffee) but I’m not a fan. I’m getting used to the lumps in my hot milk, but the Senegalese sugar consumption is crazy. My sister, Khady, adds 5 cubes of sugar to her [one cup of] coffee every morning. When she handed me the box, I took one, and she was like, That’s it?! Um. Yeah. Those are big sugar cubes, man.

On a completely unrelated note, I have discovered that the women here don’t grow hair. Fatimata let me examine her arm yesterday and there are little pores where the hairs would be if there were any, but it’s completely smooth. Must be an adaptation to living in a hot climate. Apparently, they don’t even have that much hair on their heads. We were noticing the first few days that many of the women were wearing wigs. My sisters said that they get weaves or wear wigs because their hair is very fine and doesn’t grow long. My host-mom has cornrows and wraps her head in brightly colored fabric.

Pas de Problème

We were told before arriving that the Senegalese are known for Teranga (hospitality). It’s been a few days since I moved in with my host-family and I’m not going to disagree.

The first night, I slept in the “girls’ room.” There are bunkbeds and a third bed on the opposite wall. I spent the night there with Khady, my host-sister (28) and Fatimata, my other sister (19). My host-mom, Fatou showed me the bathroom I was to use that was in the “boys’ room” shared by my brothers, Amadou (20) and Thierno (16), and a cousin Marodou (21-22ish?). “There is an ‘English Chair’ in this bathroom,” she explained. She pointed to a toilet. The boys use the hole in the ground.

Yesterday I moved into my actual room. They had been painting it a comforting Michigan State Dormitory eggnog color when I arrived. I share this room with Khady, and we have our own bathroom (ie, toilet with a shower a foot away and a drain). It seems like my host-mom has read the entire manual on hosting foreign students. When she was explaining my bedroom arrangements she gave me a look and said, “They told me you needed to have your own bed, but so you won’t be alone, Khady will be there with you.” Every meal so far she has described at length all the ways I’m to avoid Diarrhea while I’m here. “Alice can’t eat raw vegetables yet, or she’ll be running to the bathroom every 5 minutes.” “Alice shouldn’t eat couscous two nights in a row- it’s too hard to digest and she’ll spend all day in the shower.” The kids just laugh and try to get me to taste whatever it is she wants me to avoid. I had a vegetable salad and a fruit salad a day ago because I missed raw food so much. But I got to eat cucumbers last night for diner so it’s all good. I should count my blessings that someone cares so much about my digestive system.



There’s a goat on the roof- I can hear him bleating. Oh, I mean sheep. It’s a sheep. He looks much more like a goat to me, but they insist it’s a sheep. How do you tell the difference, anyway? Fatou says that most Senegalese families have a white sheep in the house or on the premises to chase away bad spirits. Khady always tells me he’s her sheep, and I asked her yesterday what his name was and she said he didn’t have one, but after much thought, decided maybe she’d name him Hope. I asked if they were going to eat him, and she said yes, probably soon. “You’d better pick a different name,” I said.

Arriv- ed!

I'm here! It's fantastic- I already have a bunch of pictures that I will try to get up soon. Internet access is pretty limited at the moment, but hopefully once our first classes start next week, I'll be able to update on a more regular basis.

I moved in with my host-family yesterday and they're a lot of fun! More on that later... we have to go : )

Miss you all!