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!