Thankful

On Monday, the sandwich stand I normally frequent at school was closed, so I ventured off to a new restaurant with some friends. We ate a pretty good meal and very cheap meal of rice and fish. Flash forward to 10:00 pm : I'm lying in bed with a fever and my digestive system is rebelling against me. By the next morning, I had woken up four times with "intestinal difficulties," but my fever broke around 2 am. Too sick to attend class, I sletp in and felt much better for awhile. Then, confident in my body's self-healing abilities, I went to school to meet with my language partner. I almost passed out, but Jen was there for me, going so far as to refill my water bottle. I went home and fainted onto the bed. Not having learned my lesson, I dragged myself to Senegalese Society and Culture, where I experienced horrible back spasms and had to lie down after class. Isaac and Alicia accompanied me to Elton, and their witty reparte (along with some salty crackers) helped immensely. A special shout-out to my host family who didn't force food on me and my fabulous program assistant Elizabeth for taking care of school-related stuff. Beyond these individuals, there were a number of others who expressed genuine concern. Thank you to everyone who helped me get through my no good, very bad day.

Allusions

I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind…
I think I need a sunrise, I’m tired of the sunset

- Augustana “Boston”

These lyrics describe how I felt at the end of last semester. It was the craziest of my life: my courses stretched me to the limit, but I also found amazing, supportive friends who helped me balance work and school (hi K and R!). My study abroad experience was supposed to take place in the spring, but scheduling factors related to a major I’m no longer pursuing and family events (sister’s graduation, etc.) forced me to move it to the fall. Thank goodness! I’m discovering things about myself every day. It may be cliché, but sometimes you really do have to get lost in order to find yourself. I’m about to embark on a pretty dramatic change that I know will be good for me. But I hesitate just a bit, wondering if this is really what I want to do. I guess it’s hard for me to accept that part of growing up is closing doors on perfectly good ideas. I’m currently reading “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf (thanks for the tip Alicia!) and one of the main characters, Mrs. Ramsay, envisions Life as a force to be contested. Either you get the better of life, or it gets the better of you. I hope I made the right bet…

“To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily. Not to dare is to lose oneself.”

- Soren Kierkegaard

Fêtes Religieux

It’s only October, but ‘tis the season for religious celebrations (fêtes religieux) in Senegal. My friend Jen was treated to a wonderful one last Tuesday night as marabouts proclaimed the word of Allah. All night long, right outside her door, with megaphones. Korite, or the end of the Muslim month of fasting known as Ramadan, is this weekend and I’ve been trying to score invites to my friends with Muslim families. I just returned from a mini-fête religieux held in my courtyard. My mother is evidently part of a rotational rosary circle and tonight was our turn to host. One of the nice things about being Catholic is the universality of the religion – we used the same prayers in the same order as back home. And with all of those Hail Mary’s in the rosary, I picked up on that one quite quickly.

I discovered that today was Korite when I left for the gym and found all of the roads blocked by hundreds of people praying towards Mecca. After finding a side street, I discovered that the gym was closed and would possibly, but not probably, be open this afternoon. As the air was actually cool for once (yay weather changes!), I jogged at school before returning home and waiting for lunch. It was served later than expected and thus I missed the chicken meal at cousin Kalii’s, but did arrive in time for fruit and juice. The way our program staff played it up, Korite sounded like a religious observance in the morning with a full-out party in the afternoon, complete with the ritual sacrifice of a ram. However, I found out that it’s usually a much more tranquil affair during which friends and family come a-calling.

Going to church tonight was like a having another mini-fête religieux - the hymns were accompanied by African drums. And after the service, several gentlemen attempted to relieve themselves inside the church compound walls (not in the sanctuary) before being corrected by a kindly deacon. But moreso than that, my host mother is happiest at church. She smiles and says hello to everyone, and makes her friend pull the car over for a quick chat. Even though she has a very strong personality and is very commanding, it’s nice to remember that we do have things in common.

TMA 2

Another issue has come up around mealtimes. Through painful trial and error, my family has learned that my digestive system was not built with Senegalese porridges in mind. I have a rather hit-and-miss record: lach (which is my friend Cybil’s favorite dish) was a disaster, but ndala is amazing! Armed with this knowledge, the cook usually prepares something different for me and I eat a little off to the side. At the beginning of the semester, my cousin Daba would be sent up to say “Come eat” but since she left for school, they usually just call my name. I, however, was treated to a presentation of polite eating by my mother which consisted of the following: “When you eat by yourself, you must invite us. Even when we tell you that everything on the plate is for you alone, invite us. Though we will always say no, invite us.” I don’t have a problem with this practice, but it’s quite different from my usual dining habits. My two year old nephew Amadou was angry at me for 15 minutes on Monday night because I failed to invite him to eat so that he could have the opportunity to say no. We’ve worked out a system now, but sometimes this whole super-politeness thing is still foreign to me.

Yet my family in general is one of the better ones when it comes to sharing. Michelle and Kate live with a constant chorus of “Gimmes,” and other students have been pressed to help pay for the rent! Moreover, my family genuinely does share everything. Our little ritual is to share roasted peanuts while watching soap operas after dinner. The next time I buy treats I intend to offer them each a bit, if only to see their reactions!

TMA 1

The previous posts about fall break were entitled TIA: “This is Africa.” TMA was an acronym coined by my friend/neighbor/classmate Michelle on her trip. The Wolof word for hospitality is “teranga” and the Senegalese are very proud of being the Land of Teranga. But sometimes you can’t say anything but “TMA: Teranga My Ass!” My friend Isaac, ever the anthropologist had a wonderful observation. “I’ve spent the last few years reading about communal-based societies and saying how much more wonderful they were than American culture. But coming here has made me realize that American culture is MY culture.”

My family and I are progressing towards the second stage of cultural adjustment. We’ve been through the “So you have absolutely NO clue about Senegalese society” phase and are now in the “Stop being a selfish American” phase. When I returned from fall break, I felt that my host family and I had finally found a good groove in a stable routine. Then last Saturday, I came home from the cybercafe to find a woman standing in my courtyard. My host mother explained that she sells bon-bons. I wasn’t hungry at the time and thought it was just a statement of profession. However, she then said “Buy some” in the imperative mood, which is used for commands, before adding, “They’re really good.” I figured, why not and purchased a bag. Then the maid asked me to buy some for her too, and to avoid familial awkwardness I acquiesced to her request. Later that night, my host mother proceeded to lecture me at the dinner table when everyone was sharing the bon-bons that I bought about how I do not know the meaning of sharing. TMA, lady. Oh, and when I offered to share mine, they all replied, “No, I’m full now. But nice effort!” My host mother was however pleasantly surprised when I gave her gifts from America that my parents had sent. I am now allowed to keep sunflower seeds just to myself as no one else enjoyed them, and she has some new tea towels which actually match the style of her own – my American mom is really good at picking out textiles!

TIA Days 4 and 5

The original plan for the second day at Toubakouta was to visit the nearby national park, but our host advised us that it was not the season. Rain spurs vegetative growth and evidently none of the animals would be visible. Plus, the guidebook made getting to the park seem like another adventure entirely. Instead, we took a short pirogue tour to a delta island where the village had a female chief and played in the saltwater for a bit. While the ladies had hamburgers again for lunch, I decided to try charwma, whose closest Western equivalent is probably the gyro. Tuesday afternoon was spent either reading on the porch or sleeping in the bungalow. We had picked up supplies for the return home at a boutique and had a nice picnic dinner. Colette is quite the nuturing provider: not only did she contribute most of the snacks like oranges, a Senegalese woman trusted her to carry her baby on the pirogue ride back from the island! After having asked the hotel staff earlier if the djembes would be playing a receiving an answer of 9 pm, we dutifully headed over in order to be informed by another hotel employee that of course there were no djembes that night! Naturally, upon waking on Wednesday morning, the power and water were again working. We ate a quick breakfast and got on the road by 7:30, returning to school by 2:30 pm. The most interesting part of this stage was being stuck in a bush taxi with seven seats and nine people (one woman was traveling with her very young children) in a traffic jam with no breeze for what seemed like the longest 20 minutes of my young life.This vacation has taught me a variety of things. For instance, Africa does not have acne. Or freckles, as Molly added. Everyone here has perfect skin – hypotheses include the humidity or something actually in the water. Thus, when my maid saw me with a few pimples upon my return, she tried to spread itching salve on them. Interesting side note: I have yet to see many Senegalese people sweat up close, though this may have more to do with Ramadan dehydration than anything else. But it was nice to experience genuine teranga and get away from the hustle and bustle of Dakar for a few days. Now for some sleeping, reading, and writing…

TIA Day 3

Bright and early the next morning, we headed off to Toubakouta on an Ndanga Ndiaye, which is the national version of a car rapide. Thus, it was cheap and crammed. It didn’t help that the only road to Toubakouta was riddled with potholes, causing our large white van to offroad at various points and preventing Liana and I from ever finding our balance. It was a relatively short 2.5 hour trip for 70 kilometers, and we were unceremoniously dumped by the side of the road with our luggage. We followed the first path until we saw a large pink building which resembled a hotel and consulted a local woman, who said it was abandoned. After a quick phone call from Molly, the proprietor arrived shortly from his other property and explained that this was the new compound. Being the only guests, we decided it would be fun to have the place to ourselves. Yet when we entered the room, there were lots of spiders (which did wonders for Molly’s arachnaphobia) and no power. Determined to find lunch during Ramadan, we sallied forth to Toubakouta proper, helped by a “friendly” artisan who showed us his older brothers’ ateliers so that we could gaze at their synchronized repertoire of elephants and hippopotamuses. While genuine teranga is always appreciated, we hadn’t signed up for the tour and hoped to ditch the guy by going into a hamburger joint for lunch. They were amazingly tasty and filling, which was fortuitous as we needed to muster all of our strength in order to look at all of the artisans’ wares. Evidently, during the November to February tourist season there are enough customers for them all, but with only 8 toubabs in town, their prospects didn’t look so good. After fending off the last we bought some water at a boutique and headed home. Liana hadn’t been feeling well and had headed back early, leaving Molly, Colette, and I to get totally lost in this (literal) backwater. Some nice neighbor kids walked us back across town to our compound, only to discover that the water was no longer working. Sweating on a mattress for two hours was delightful, but it was worth it for the amazing pirogue ride. Toubakouta is in the Siné-Saloum river delta, and the mangrove swamps which line its brackish shores host large bird and crab colonies. Just floating on the river, watching the sunset, I thought “TIA.” Our host’s wife had prepared dinner for us at the main compound and after some quick discussion we decided to move to a place located near another place with running water. We stayed up and chatted until we heard djembe drumming. Unfortunately, the spectacle had ended by the time we arrived, but it was still beautiful to listen to.

TIA Day 2

Day 2 in Kaolack started off relaxed and easily with a visit to the Alliance Franco-Sénégalaise, a beautifully tiled and constructed center which was unfortunately closed on Sundays. A little further down the street, we patronized the artisinal market. The vendors here were more proactive than their market counterparts, but none were too pushy and we all came away with beautiful finds. I would classify my purchases more as “nice things I would’ve bought anywhere” as opposed to “essentially African,” which is another post entirely. We returned to the French restaurant for lunch and all ordered steak with fries, which turned out to be a three course meal complete with actual salad. Everyone was very excited about having a non-rice based dish for once. A trip to the Grand Mosque, which was actually in Medina, was in order and afterwards we bought some muchies and had a picnic at the inn. Unfortunately, we were returning from the boutiques around 8:40 pm, which is when the last call to prayer for Muslims end, and we had to pass the town mosque. I was walking along the sidewalk one second and slipped through a crack the next – right into a sewer pipe! Several people seemed very concerned and helped me stand on my filthy, bleeding legs until I could make it back to the hotel. The innkeeper washed my feet in a bucket of diluted bleach and even offered to fish out my sandals, which I declined. A sterilizing wipe and a few bandages later, all was well and after a quiet dinner we watched a horrible American movie poorly dubbed in French at an ampitheatre-style cinema.

TIA Day 1

The title of this post comes from the movie “Blood Diamond.” It stands for “This is Africa.” Common usage for CIEE students is illustrated by the following examples. “We were at the beach, and when the farmer started washing one of the rams in the ocean, the other started mating with a ewe ten feet away from where we were sitting. TIA.” More universally: “I woke up to find out that my house had no power, no water, and my digestive system was in rebellion. TIA.” While I experienced plenty of this TIA on the trip, I also discovered a gentler side.

Molly, Liana, Colette and I left on Saturday morning at 5:30 am from school. We reached the gare routierre at 6:00 and were on the way to Kaolack by 6:30. Trying to bargain with persistent drivers in your non-native language that early in the morning can become very interesting. It doesn’t help when your main travel, and thus, pricing resource is a three year old guidebook. Despite being quite cramped, we made it to Kaolack by 11:30 am. Our lodging, L’Auberge de Carrefour (Inn of the Crossroads), was substantially better than we had expected: the chambres ventilees had giant ceiling fans instead of dinky ones stuck in the corner. Moreover, we had spacious bathrooms and locking room doors. Faucet and interior handles were not as well maintained but livable. After a quick lunch at the Bluebird Inn, we headed off to Kaolack’s famous market, supposedly the second largest after Marakesh. For those not acquainted with Dakar, the main downtown shopping district is Marché Sandaga, where persistent street vendors will hassle you, pickpockets will steal, and you will come away exhausted and embittered at humanity. But when all of the vendors at a market know that there will be plenty of customers, they are far more apt to be pleasant. We were greeted in Wolof and/or French at each stall we passed and everyone came away with some amazing deals. Of course, when everyone was tired from traveling and shopping, the power went out and we were stuck trying to resposer in stagnant heat. A lovely French restaurant recommended by the guidebook proved to be the perfect escape – when they lost power, they simply switched to a candlelit ambiance. Colette, Liana and I headed back to the Bluebird later for drinks and conversation while Molly passed out from the heat and exhaustion. As my roommate and I were chatting before bed, the fan came on and all was well.