New Update

It's Sunday, and I am starting to feel the beginnings of a downward turn. This week has been eventful, to say the least, but that's all over – classes start tomorrow, and the beginning of a routine. I haven't been able to properly digest what I've seen this week, and I'm starting to find myself in this limbo between understanding and complete confusion.

Let me start by explaining the family dynamics that we've come to know this past week:

l “Papa” Ignace: The father. A jovial, dynamic person who I believe is responsible for his family's participation in being a host family in the first place. Melanie and I are one of “countless” Americans who have lived in this house....at least 10 years worth. Since it is so difficult to get host families within walking distance from W.A.R.C., the same families seem to be recycled.
 He seems to get a kick out of having foreigners in his house, and definitely radiates an immense feeling of African pride. He gets some sort of satisfaction out of showering us with knowledge, translating the dubbed Brazilian soap operas to me of which the entire family is transfixed daily, or the Wolof movie called Treize...yes, he translated an entire movie for me. We've talked about everything from Senegalese history, sports including African wrestling, spirituality, culture, food, language, sharing his family (old photos, his village of Casamance where he goes several times a year with tourists), etc. He is protective, like a father figure, and being a pretty large (tall, strong) man, we are glad to have him take us to the corner to hail taxis at night, bargain with them....and then finally deciding to go with us in the taxi to the bar....and even taking us up to the door of the bar to make sure we're ok He is the only one of the family with whom we've had such extensive conversations.
l “Mama” Leontine: The mother. Most of the time Leontine seems to genuinely enjoy having us around. If she overhears us ask a question, she hurriedly answers us in French. She seems to be busy most of the time, and when her husband is home, she is practically mute as she sits, engrossed in the television, whether it be news in Wolof or soap operas. He definitely seems to not only dominate the conversation, but he seems genuinely interested in us...if only to see our reaction to what he tells us about. Leontine hasn't really made as much of an effort. She conducts most of her conversations in Wolof, like the rest of the family, and hardly ever addresses us other than when we wake up in the morning and when we return home for the day.
l Antoine, Therese, Cathy: The kids. Antoine seems young and self-absorbed. Like their mother, they've given the impression so far that Melanie and I are “just another one of “those Americans.” Although, unlike past students, we don't party, puke in the house, pick up girls/guys at bars, leave our dirty underwear and garbage on the floor in the room, and get lost at 3 in the morning and then call to have Ignace come and yet them. However, we are still viewed as another of the same breed....same old news, same old story, nothing interesting. They do not address us except in passing, or to ask if we had a good night at the bar, for example. They don't ask us to go out, they don't show interest in playing games or cards or learning about our country. They stay out of our way and are cordial. We did not see Antoine at all yesterday, and when we asked him where he was, he ambiguously replied “Je suis sorti.” I went out. When I asked where he went, he said he visited his grandmother. He didn't offer anything else...not, oh, my grandmother lives in the south banlieus, or do you want to meet her? The conversation died there. I'm not sure if this is a cultural thing, that it just takes time to warm up to us...or if it is genuine disinterest based on the flood of students who have occupied the house for the past 10 years. Theares and Cathy get along really well, more like friends. They tickle each other, they sing songs while they cook and clean. Antoine kids around with them, but he does not get along too well with his old brother, Jean-Marie.
l Jean-Marie: the one who cares. Jean-Marie seems genuinely sympathetic for me and Melanie. Aside from the fact that we didn't even meet him/see him for the first three days we were here, ever since he opened our relationship by embarrassing me in front of everyone, he's been very receptive. (He came down and said, in front of everyone, “C'etait toi qui criait en haut ce matin?” Was it you that was screaming up there this morning? After laughing and blushing, I said, “Yes, it was me in the shower...it was freezing!” Everyone burst out laughing for a good 10 minutes). He works in l'Oasis which is about two blocks from our house in the same neighborhood. It's a small bar where all the Catholics go (non-Muslims...people who can actually drink). They have the reputation, which Brendon's host brother told us the other night, of being “party animals.” I guess that makes me lucky to be living with Catholics? Friday night, I realized that I hadn't been out at all for anything fun – aside from walking to and from W.A.R.C. (the center where we take classes), I hadn't been anywhere else. So I asked if we could go out. Theares took Melanie and me to l'Oasis where me met Jean-Marie. It wasn't clear to me at first why he was already there, but he had us take a seat. He sat and talked with us for a while, about his philosophy of life (just live day by day for yourself, to be happy). Then some of his friends came and sat down, and spoke Wolof unless we asked them something. Jean-Marie was very nice and sympathetic toward us, and made sure we were having a good time. He even bought us another round of drinks, but unfortunately we couldn't finish them in time because we had to be up early the next day for our tour of Dakar.


Here are some things that annoy me so far:
The family is always speaking Wolof around us, instead of French....I find this sort of rude. I can understand if they were saying a few words or phrases and then including us in the conversation, but this isn't the case. We go entire meals, if Papa Ignace isn't around, where Melanie and I are completely silent and everyone else speaks Wolof. They don't even try to ask us questions or include us at all. This is beginning to really annoy me. I spoke to other students, and this doesn't seem like a cultural thing...it seems like it's just our family. Their families all try to include them, and attempt to speak French around them. What I don't understand is, everyone speaks French...including the kids...and they don't make an effort around us.

Here are some things worth mentioning:

*Senegalese beer: I've had two types so far: Gazelle and Flag. Flag is a darker beer, whereas Gazelle is a pretty light beer. They're both very good, and I've begun to drink Flag with Grenadine...which is actually pretty good. I have not gotten drunk, I usually just go to l'Oasis, the bar where Jean-Marie works, and have one drink and talk. It's a pretty good way to practice Wolof and meet people from our neighborhood.
· There is a a supermarket about two blocks from where I live. It's called Casino, which is a chain apparently. There are three or so in Dakar. It is the only place I've noticed where the prices of things are listed, scribbled on a piece of paper that is taped to the shelf. Most other places are not listed, and the store owner makes up the prices as he sees fit....probably depending on if you're toubab (white) or a local. They have a pretty good selection there...lots of Senegalese food, as well as French, and a meat counter. The one thing I find interesting, is that most people do not buy regular milk. Instead, they buy lait caille which is sour milk. Contrary to what I expected, it doesn't taste sour in the least bit. Instead, it's sweetened, so it tastes a bit like yogurt. It isn't refrigerated, and most people have sour milk, condensed milk as well as powdered milk in their homes. We ate it poured over a couscous-like millet concoction, almost like millet porridge. It was pretty tasty...it's called tcaiy (chaye).
· So far, besides the tcaiy, I've had ceib bu jen (chape bu jen), which is couscous with a tomato-based, spicy sauce with carrots, potatoes and fish. It's not as good as everyone makes it out to be, (it's the national food here), but it was pretty good. The thing that struck me, is that some of the fish that is eaten here have teeth. By teeth, I don't mean tiny little teeth you can barely notice...I mean teeth like our cat Pepinot. I would not want to run into one of these things alive. And yes, all the fish we've had still has its head and tail intact. We've also had Chinese stir fry, which is just like home, except it tastes a lot more salty with different spices. We've had French fries (which they just refer to as potatoes), at least four times since we got here, which Mama Leontine serves everyone at the table with her bare hands. It's tradition for the mother of the household to serve everyone by hand like this, in some more traditional families, she will even tear up fish and meat with her hands to serve everyone.
· Most Muslim families around here keep sheep, as well (which we thought were goats until a few days ago, but it turns out that in hot climates, sheep don't grow wool...so they have the face of a sheep but look just like goats). They feed them, and tie them up in the house...until the end of a Muslim holiday, or whatever, where the family slaughters them and eats them. It's still a bit strange for me to see livestock in the middle of a capital city like that...there aren't exactly any fields or grass or anything for them to eat or roam around in. In fact, during the day, they are just tied up to a pole in the middle of the road, where they can't walk very far.

Here are some things that are bothering me:
· I miss home...but not in a way I expected. I miss things being familiar, and knowing people, and being comfortable. It's not that I'm uncomfortable here...it's just that EVERYTHING is a task, everything requires you to be 100% attentive to what's going on around you...it can be mentally exhausting. It's not just the language...which there are two...I'm learning Wolof from the ground up, as well as daily struggling with French (the Senegalese speak with a lot of slang, more than what I'm used to. And they don't always speak slowly with me.) Some Senegalese don't even speak French...so asking for directions when we're lost is a bit of a challenge, when all you can say in Wolof is “I'm going to Sicap Baobab (my neighborhood)”, but you can't understand the directions people give you in response.
· I miss miss English...where it feels like a legitimate language...and not just an impostor, preventing communication. English here is just useless. It feels like I'm babbling when I speak it, and it is the only time I really feel like an outsider...other than when I walk down the street when I feel everyone is staring at me. Which they are. Most white people stay in downtown Dakar, about half an hour's drive away, in the upscale hotels. A few of us got lost on the way to Fann Residence (where some of the students live), and we ended up in a quartier (quarter/neighborhood) called Grand Dakar, which is just a section of our area where there are several streets of markets. People were selling everything from tires, to used sound systems, to mattresses, to fruit, to nuts, to baked goods, to blankets and clothing...children were all home from school, and the parents home from work. Stray cats (which are treated like squirrels around here, not pets), dogs, and sheep were everywhere...the sound, smells and sights were overwhelming. To make matters worse, five toubabs walking in the middle of it all caused more than a few people to stop in their tracks from their work and play to stare at us. Several bands of children stopped to point. We waved and would say “Hello!” to the children, and “Salaam maleikoum” or “Ca va” to the adults. They seemed surprise that we acknowledged them. We felt like V.P. Celebrities, only that no one knew what to do with us. One tiny little girl, no more than five years old, broke the stare of her family by screaming, “Bonjour, Toubab!” We laughed, and said “Bonjour!” Some little boys ran up to us and followed us. They reached out their hands, and for some reason I had the urge to slap them five. So I did. I slapped the first one high five, and he shrieked with delight and started to giggle. The others put out their hands, and I slapped them all five one by one. They really enjoyed it and followed us for a while. Aside from this one interesting and memorable time in Grand Dakar, it is so strange to be the odd one out. For once I know how it is to be black in America. I don't think any white person can understand how this feels unless they come to Africa for an extended period of time. I sometimes catch myself feeling ashamed, in some obscure way, of my obviousness....the softness of my hair, and the whiteness of my skin. Everyone else is so friendly, outspoken, confident, with black, rich skin and brightly colored clothing. I feel like I will never fit in here, even when I learn all there is to know about the rhythm and society of where I live...just because of the way I look and the English I speak. My socio-economic background doesn't really play in my mind at all, because as a student, I don't consider myself a rich American. And as for washing machines and dishwashers – I don't feel particularly...primitive, for lack of a better word – because at Andrew and my apartment in Champaign, we don't have either! Although when I asked Jean-Marie if he wonders where Americans come here at all, he wasn't really sure, and when I asked if we are “spoiled” he said, “Yes” without a moment's hesitation.
· Living with another American is interesting. It has its ups and downs...we can complain to each other when we want, which is cathartic, we can discuss the day and analyze what happened, we can verify if we've understood everything that was told to us that day, etc. It's nice to have someone to talk with, and to share my culture with at night before bed, when everyone else has gone to bed. However, sometimes I wonder if my French would improve faster if I was forced to be on my own, without an English speaker nearby. Also, her French is not as good, which means conversations are slower and simpler, because I have to stop and explain to her what's being said, and Papa and Mama speak in simpler phrases as well around her. Aside from that, I share a room with her and we are almost always together...which prevents me from having any privacy or alone time...which I am beginning to crave. I asked her to give me a few hours alone yesterday, and she totally understood, which was nice. I drew some nice sketches, which everyone in my family is fascinated by...they love them, and ask me to show new ones all the time. I sometimes go up on Jean-Marie's roof to look out over the neighborhood and read/draw/whatever. So that helps. But I feel suffocated....seeing Americans at W.A.R.C....and then walking home with Melanie, to pass the rest of the day with her, and at night. We talked about this though, and she understands the need to spend time apart from time to time. So maybe this will work out better.

____________________________________________________

So we had a breakthrough with Antoine and the girls!! But I have to start at the beginning to explain: four French people, two couples, arrived yesterday night in Dakar, friends of Ignace and Leontine. They are really very nice...and it's amazing how comfortable they behave here. The one woman came downstairs this morning in her t-shirt and shorts, and began to smoke in the kitchen. She made a joke out of it, and Leontine didn't seem to mind at all. They are leaving for Casamance (the south of Senegal, where it's more tropical, where Ignace is from), in the morning, for two weeks....so il faut survive sauf eux. We have to survive without them.
The woman seemed very interested in what we were doing, who we were, etc etc. She told us she had dystentary a year ago, when she drank the tap water...and she urged us not to risk the same disease. We've only been drinking filtered and bottled water, and so far it's been fine. Not sick yet, knock on wood. Anyway, since the French couples were there, Ignace and Leontine had dinner with them at the table, while us “enfants” had to eat at a wooden table in the hallway upstairs. Instead of plates, for the first time, we ate the traditional Senegalese style – almost. With one bowl in the middle of the table with French fries, fish in the middle, and a type of onion sauce that goes over the top. We still ate with forks, which is different from everyone else's families (because they're Muslim and eat with their right hand), but we all ate from the same bowl.
Anyway, we were eating, and across the table, Antoine and the girls spoke rapid Wolof, as usual, and were ignoring Melanie and I. We began to get irritated and just decided to speak English...they didn't seem to notice. After a while, I noticed Antoine playfully pointing his fork at his sister, obviously threatening her to stop teasing him. What I said next went like this:
“T'es mechant alors...je savais pas.” So you're mean...I didn't know. Except the problem was that I had put an emphasis on the “t” in mechant...which, when you're talking to a male, you're not supposed to do. He corrected me:
“Il faut dire “Mechant” avec des hommes,” You have to say “mechant” with men,” correctly pronouncing the end of the word without the “t.” So I said, smiling and looking boldly at him across the table:
“Mais comment sais-je que t'es un homme? Tu peux etre fille. Regardez, ses doigts sont si longues et delicats.” But how do I know you're a man? You could be a girl....Look, his fingers are so long and delicate.
Well that comment definitely hit the right note, as I thought it would. I could tell that he was one of those guys who reacts well to being teased....and the Senegalese culture in general appreciates being teased, and those who can accept teasing. It's a form of bonding in a strange way....to untie people's up tightness, to relieve tension.
So anyway, it worked like a charm. He stared at me for a second, comprehending what I had said, and his two sisters burst into laughter. He smiled and looked away, trying to defend himself over their laughter. He started laughing also, and said, “Tanks” (he was trying to say thanks). And then...”Beh....non...” But, no....
Then his sisters started jabbering in Wolof, and Melanie and I assumed we had lost the conversation. But Antoine then said, “Regard-ca...maintenat c'est mes soeurs qui se moquent de moi.” Look at that...now it's my sisters who are making fun of me.
I then turned to his sister and high-fived her. Then everyone started laughing. The tension was completely eased, and everyone began to pay attention to Melanie and I. Antoine began to feel brave, and started to speak English to us....mostly to make us laugh. He said that of all the exchange students that had passed through their house, none of them had bothered to give him the time of day, basically...much less practice English with him. So I said, “On va faire un petit lecon, alors.” We're going to have a little lecon, then.”
We then proceeded to laugh and correct him, as he laughed at his own English. “Mai...euh....Engleesh...ees.....euh.....very bad....euh....” and then laugh again. After talking more, we began to talk about music. He invited us to his room where he has a desktop computer, and he showed us his extensive collection of American rap. We played some classic rock, as well as modern music that we like, in exchange. He really likes rap and reggae though.
At that point I had made plans to meet Josh, because he had wanted to go to the bar Oasis by my house. He told me he had left, so I was to walk and meet him...because he doesn't know how to get to where I live. I live about 45 minutes away from him by foot.
I then asked Antoine if he wanted to come meet him with me. He politely declined and said he was tired...but I was starting to get the feeling that declining is the polite thing to do in Senegal. You don't want to feel like you're imposing, when someone invites you somewhere. So I persisted, and said, “What, you're just lazy! Come, come with me, I insist.” So he smiled and said ok. Melanie said she was tired and was going to bed.
We met Josh at “My Shop” which is a convenient store with fast food places at the big intersection we cross on our way to W.A.R.C. In the morning. We walked back, and I started them talking because I said, “Josh aime bien le rap american....Josh, Antoine aime bien le rap americain.” They both began to talk away in Franglish about rap music, for the entire half an hour back to the house. Josh saw the house, and we went up on the roof and he was very impressed with the view, as well as the fact that we have our own bathroom...which is nice, I must admit. Apparently I have a nice “crib.” We went back downstairs, and I asked Antoine if he wanted to come with to the bar. He again, politely declined and said he was tired. I laughed again, and insisted. He said he didn't want to “derranger” (to bother us, impose) and I said that was ridiculous, of course he wouldn't be imposing, I was inviting him. Then, he accepted.
We walked to the bar and went inside. There were barely any people there, because it's a Monday night, but there was this one guy who was totally drunk and once he realized we were American, he wouldn't leave us alone. Antoine translated in the middle of laughing to himself, as the guy procceeded to compliment Josh on his “Rasta” (like Rastafarian...the back-to-Africa movement originating in black communities in the Carribiean, like Bob Marley, etc), saying he had hair like that until his wife shaved half his head in his sleep. He talked about Obama and Bush and America, and forced us to practice our Wolof. Then he walked away and began to dance alone. It was amusing. Josh and Antoine talked nearly the entire time about music, which didn't bother me one bit...Jean-Marie was there, which was nice. I was just happy to be finally interacting with Antoine after all this time. Making progress!!!.....Ndank, Ndank (Wolof for, one step at a time, slowly). (NdAHnkuh, ndAHnkuh). Antoine then helped Josh take his first taxi, back home to Fann Residence.
It was a good night. Ugh.....I cannot kill this one mosquito.......

Stuff about first few days

So finally I am able to write, after being in Dakar almost four days. I have so much to write, I can only hope to get it all down by a reasonable hour in order to wake up yet again at 7:00am to be at the West African Research Center – or, as we are beginning to call with affection, W.A.R.C., as have all the students before us – at 9:00am. I can already feel myself starting to understand the routine here in Sicap Baobab with my family...and I don't think it'll be too long before I start to feel comfortable.

It didn't start out so comfortably. For those who know, Joshua Davenport (the other University of Illinois student on this program), and I had quite an adventure getting to Senegal. There came several points where we half-jokingly wondered if we would arrive here at all. Gotta love Delta airlines...and American....oh and let's not forget South African. To make a long and complicated story short – I'll spare you the migraine – because of an unknown delay on our original Chicago-New York Delta flight, we were transferred to American Airlines. Unbeknown to us. Luckily my resourceful and diligent father called me and said – “You've been switched to American...it leaves it 20 minutes.” After SPRINTING across O'Hare from Gate H to Gate K – at this speed, about 12 minutes away – American says I need to back to Delta and claim my itinerary ticket. Sprinted again...luckily Josh calls and tells me (he had stayed behind to check with Delta before following me, and got his ticket) that the American flight is delayed another 10 minutes. Lucky me, I thought, as I ran full speed, heaving and panting, my face red and dripping with sweat – otherwise I surely would have missed the flight.

We thought it was over when we reached New York, that we would be on our way soon – but alas, no cigar. Even American Airlines had brought us too late. After again running full speed with a middle-aged group of South Africans bound for Johannesburg from the American flight – we were told that the plane was on the runway. We were too late. A vacant customer service number for South African gave us no solace in what to do next.

After making frenzied attempts on both Josh's and my part to find a place to stay for the night in New York city, among them Uncle Mike/Aunt Violet and Josh's cousin – who turned out to be at Obama's inauguration and couldn't take us in – we finally found the Delta information counter, after navigating the airport for at least 45 minutes. To our excitement in all of this, we were speechless with exuberance when the Delta guy at the information counter handed us a hotel voucher at the Radisson, as well as $20 in meal vouchers each. As for our luggage, he took our baggage tickets and typed a few numbers into the system – but he “couldn't guarantee it would make it.” All we could hope for at this point, was that all would go well the next day at the same time – when the next flight to Dakar was scheduled.

After a horrific 20 minute wait in the 20 degree weather outside the airport by the hotel shuttle pickup/drop off point, in our Senegal-savvy light jackets...we finally got onto the shuttle for the Radisson hotel. On the way I gathered my courage to ask “Vous etes etudiantes?” to these Swiss girls who were speaking in rapid French across from Josh and I. The four of us began talking, and they were excited to hear where we were headed. They had been all over Northern Africa, and said it was amazing. This seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel for us...at least there was the “amazing” part to look forward to eventually.

After a dinner of hamburger (my last one) in the restaurant downstairs, and wondering about what the group was going to be like and what they were doing....we went back up the elevator to our rooms. They were nice rooms, and it was pleasant to have my own space after such a stressful day. I took a long hot shower, talked to Andrew, watched Erin Brockovich, and fell asleep on the soft, fluffy hotel pillows – relishing the break I would have before what I anticipated would be another long and stressful day.

The next morning we went downstairs and checked out at around 10:15 in the morning. We waited for the shuttle, and when it came early, we were excited. The bus driver was definitely Afro-Caribbean of some sort, and was joking and making remarks that would indicate his background, as we pulled away from the hotel. After a bout of road rage on his part when another hotel shuttle cut him off on the airport highway (our driver followed the shuttle, yelling to himself in anger, and pulled up beside him to threaten to take away his license), we arrived at JFK. The woman next to me, since we were the only three left on the shuttle going to South African Airlines, Terminal 3, asked in a heavily British/South African accent, if we had missed our flight. I agreed that we had, and we exchanged words of frustration and contempt for South African as we navigated our way toward the check in counter. Alas....it was empty. A guard told us the check in counter wouldn't open until 1:30. Two hours to waste....we split up with the South African woman to head over the the McDonald's downstairs in the Duty Free Mall. (Josh was prepared to take full advantage of the last opportunity to have a McGriddle...while I paid almost triple what he did for fruit and a salad.)

After listening to African and French music on my laptop to cheer us up, and get us in the mood for our trip and off being frustrated...we finally went back upstairs to the check-in counter. After waiting in line, and being then sent back down two levels to Delta again, we FINALLY received our boarding passes. Security was a breeze, and we began to notice Africans around us conspicuously dressed in beautiful, flowing, colorful bouboubs, and hair wraps. We must have been going to the right place.

After a healthy dose of complaining, we bonded with the three middle aged South African woman who were seated around us. The British woman and the Afrikaner woman (South African both, but Afrikaner is of Dutch decent and speaks a nearly detached variation of Dutch), began to speak Afrikaner At first I thought it was German, but when I realized that this woman were speaking Afrikaner I listened, fascinated, as this was the first time I heard it spoken. After buying Josh a Heineken – yes, illegal, he is 20, soon to be 21, and.......what am I apologizing for?? After all that, I couldn't blame him – I read the first 80 pages of the Michael Crichton book that Andrew and I reading together while I'm gone.

We boarded the plane breathless and relieved, and after over an hour of waiting for them to de-ice the plane, we were finally on our way. We ate the following for dinner:

*Chicken (Josh) and Lamb Curry (me)
*a piece of cheddar cheese
*a roll with butter
*white whine
*a South African-style side dish which included cole slaw-ISH cabbage at the bottom in white sauce, with a small piece of cold, previously seared beef sitting on top.
*a custard/cheesecake dessert soaking raspberry sauce
*an Andes mint

It wasn't bad, except Josh – at my egging on, I take full responsibility – tried the cole slaw and promptly had an allergic reaction in his mouth. He is apparently allergic to raw fruits and vegetables, which he had neglected to tell me. Oh well, some hot tea cleared that up after about 10 minutes.

We tried to sleep...but neither of us got much sleep. We spent out time listening to each other's collection of African music, and passing back and forth Josh's copy of Lonely Planet travel guides' description of Senegal and the Gambia. We were starting to put the last 48 hours behind us and look forward to a very interesting four months.

We were hoping to see the sunrise as we landed at 6:30AM in Dakar, but alas, everything was still pitch black out. We were the only toubabs (white people) that got off the plane...along with about 20 black, tall Senegalese dressed in both Western-style business suits and casual formal outfits, as well as traditional clothes. We took a bus to the airport, where it became a scrabbling of bodies and “Pardon-moi, excusez-moi”, as people squeezed around each other in the crowded lobby to get at the blank customs cards before passing through the gates. For anyone that hasn't traveled internationally before, these are the cards you're supposed to get on the plane about an hour or two before you land....with your personal information, address, reason for visiting and how long you plan to stay in the country. While we struggled to write as we were constantly being elbowed accidentally and stepped on, another plane arrived with Italian and French tourists, and more Senegalese. The lobby was jam-packed with people, jabbering in a cacophony of noise in multiple languages – except English.

After finishing our cards, and trying to keep a low profile while we secretly couldn't stop noticing everyone and everything around us, we passed through customs with ease. We found our way into a tiny baggage claim with three carousels, and as we paused and looked for Waly (one of the Senegalese program assistants who was supposed to meet us with a sign), this man came up to us and asked us in awful English, where we were coming from. I absent-mindedly told him, and was semi-surprised to see him guiding me toward a carousel. But the time I realized that he was intending on helping me with my baggage, and subsequently would expect some money, I said politely, “Non, non, merci beaucoup mais je peux la faire.” No, no, thank you very much but I can do it.” He tisked disappointedly at this, repeated it to himself, and walked away. I made a mental note at that point to be cautious when people ask me for things or pay special attention to me in the future, and not to give off the wrong impression – that I'm vulnerable.

After rejoicing that our baggage managed to make it here after all that happened, we concentrated on finding Waly. We walked out of the tiny airport onto the large sidewalk filled with several Senegalese, where it was beginning to be illuminated by the hazy, copper morning sunlight – we had missed the sunrise while we were inside. These people represented characters ranging from harmless hired tour guides with signs for tourists, to hopeful and relentless taxi drivers soliciting their services, to beggars, to just everyday people waiting for family or just taking in the scene. They were variantly dressed; khakis and sandals with button-down chemises, to traditional men's clothing, to white boubous, to jeans and a t-shirt. I did notice to myself, “They're dark.” Their skin is so black. And I find it interesting, after coming from a hodgepodge mix of Americans ranging from every size, shape and color...to be in a country that is not interbred – except among its own interior ethnic groups. They have a sort of unity to them, as far as their build, their height, their skin tone and their mannerisms.

We saw against the building, Waly, who I recognized from Shana and Anjali's photos from last year. He held a white sign that read “MSID.” I said, “On est arrive, finalement!” And I was happy to finally hear myself utter French. He laughed, and said, “Finalement!” He took some of our baggage, but we suddenly realized we were not able to go anywhere.

The young men who had mysteriously and nonchalantly surrounding Waly turned out to be Senegalese youth interested in obtaining some our our supposed plethora of money (we ARE Americans, we're all rich, right?) any way they could. There were about 7 or 8 of them, and they began to all talk at once, the youngest being about fourteen, to us in English and French, and to Waly in Wolof. I couldn't understand what they said to Waly, but I heard “taxi,” and “deux mille cfa,” and Waly saying, “Am naa taxi bi deja,” I have a taxi already, but the noise continued. Waly raised his hands politely, saying “C'est bon, c'est bon, laissez-tranquille,” It's good, leave us alone, please. They continued to raise their hands and plea, calling him their brother and such. Meanwhile Josh and I just stood their with our luggage, not sure of what to do or say. We kept our mouths shut and let Waly do all the talking – which seemed like the best idea.

Finally, after a good five minutes of nonstop verbal jousting – which turned out to all be a part of the haggling process, the game that is bargaining – Waly agreed on a taxi driver who wore a checkered black and white scarf around his head. He motioned for us to follow him, and we pushed through the rejected taxi drivers after Waly. However, they still didn't give up.

As we walked through the parking lot, the young men were trying to squeeze next to us to take our luggage for us. “Please, Allow me, I can take this, Please, Ma'am, Where are you from Ma'am? Oh, America? Where Obama comes from? No Ma'am, I can take this for you. Allow me. Please.”

I seemed to be a little more forceful than Josh, because when I turned around, he was walking, pretty annoyed, next to a guy who was rolling his suitcase. Josh then yanked the suitcase away and rolled it himself. When we arrived at the taxi, the group of young men walked away, and walked back toward the airport for the next unsuspecting toubab.

Waly loaded our suitcases into the taxi and we got in. The taxi was old and run down, with a rumbling, growling engine. The smell of exhaust flowed through our open windows as the car started, and we rolled off. I thought I wonder how strict they are here with emissions testing. The city itself has its own distinct smell. Since developing countries are not as kept up and cleaned up as thoroughly, they tend to develop their own smell...I've heard this before...and Ecuador had this same phenomenon.

I found, as we drove along the highway surrounded by new construction projects, and billboards in French featuring Senegalese children drinking Nestle instant cocoa mix, that Dakar smells like car exhaust, a faint pungent smell of sewer from time to time, flowers (as they are everywhere), and cows. I was shocked to smell the aroma of livestock. As we drove through the Senegalese neighborhoods on unpaved, narrow, red-ish sandy streets, bumping along in the taxi, I was shocked to see a long-horned cow tied to a pole. A little further down, there was a goat, simply watching as people passed by. Women walked by with regal strides, expertly balancing jugs of water or bags or corn meal on their heads; men walked two by two in long steps, women walked by with tiny children at their heels running to catch up, displaying colorful and memorizing patterns of clothing; teenage girls walked by together dressed like Americans or Europeans. My face was pressed against the glass until we suddenly parked longways across the street, effectively blocking it. We unloaded our luggage, and as the taxi drove away, spurting dust and sand into the air in his wake, we looked up to the building we stood in front of, and the sign read “Hotel Atlantique.” Since it was not even 7:00 in the morning, we assumed the others were still asleep.

We checked in, and I was surprised to hear that the language of choice was again, Wolof – not French, between Waly and the concierges. They didn't seem interested in us Americans, but seemed a bit surprised when we offered, “Salaam maleikoum,” and responded with “Maleikoum salaam.” May peace be upon you, and peace be upon you. Although this is an Arabic greeting, it is the customary Wolof greeting.

We allowed the hotel concierges to hoist our luggage up two flights of stairs to our rooms, where Waly told us we would be permitted to sleep while the rest of the MSID students went to the bank to get money. We would be able to go later, when he picked us up at 1:00 o'clock. When I opened the door to my room, a dark black girl was in there, closing her bag. She looked up and smiled, and I assumed she was Senegalese. Having no idea she was on the trip, and simply noting that it was odd that I would be expected to share a room with a stranger, I introduced myself in French. Then, with her accent in her response, I realized she was indeed African – but not Senegalese. Her name was Margaretta, and she was from the University of Minnesota. I would learn later that she is from a country in Africa that starts with an L- ....I can't remember which one it is.

We went downstairs together for breakfast, and eventually the rest of the group came down, one-by-one. The second or third student downstairs was Melanie Krammer, the girl who recognized from Facebook as my assigned roommate once we were to move in to our host family's house. We immediately hit it off and began talking excitedly. She took out her orientation packet and began to go over some of the points with me that we had missed, such as the health and safety tips, along with the cultural aspects as well. Josh's roommate came down, Zach Rice, as well as Seth, who I would later confirm was Jewish and had also been on Birthright Israel. Henry, an American with dual-French citizenship came down, who's parents immigrated to France some thirty years ago. A girl named Ellie originally struck me as a potential pretentious, snobby hippy, later on I would realize she was pretty nice, and warmed up after a while. All in all, our of the fourteen MSID people that arrived to eat the croissants, baguettes, jam, butter and coffee, struck me as being a pretty cohesive, good group. Perhaps some struck me as a bit immature, a few did not bother to introduce themselves to Josh and I – but no matter, it was not what I expected. I expected overconfident, beatnik/hippies...but they are more dorky than I expected. Which is what I like. They seem to all be of good moral background, and I haven't heard one inclination from anyone so far about being irresponsible or rebellious or destructive. Which I'm thankful for. Which isn't speaking for American MSID people in the past, which I'll get to in a minute.

One by one they left around 9:00 to go with Waly to the bank, and to get “delivered” to their host families. Josh and I went to our separate rooms, and I immediately had to shower, and again relished the last warm shower we would have in four months. I dug through my luggage to find essentials I hadn't had while in the hotel in New York, and clean clothes. I then attempted to lay down and sleep, but unfortunately, my head was whirring with excitement and I did not feel in the least bit tired. Instead, I then got up and went to the window in my room. I unbolted it and looked out over the street.

For the next hour, I looked out to the street that was visible from my window on the second floor. I people watched, incognito from behind the thick wrought iron doily that replaced window glass, down to the yellow sandy street below. I saw:

• the same three young men wearing jeans and button-up men's shirts standing by a house which was having some construction done on the interior, smoking, chatting and generally socializing from 9:00am until 1:00pm

• an older man wearing a traditional outfit with a matching hat, who also stood on his porch and waved at people walking by in the house next to the first, on the other side of an alleyway of sand, both parallel to me.

• There was at one point, a tiny girl, no more than two years old, wandering down the street below on her rubbery, unsteady legs, wearing a clean pink dress. I would have been worried about her getting hit by a car, except there was only two cars that passed the entire time I was watching. Most people walked. I was more worried that there was no mother to be found. I almost yelled out to someone below that the “petite fille se balade toute seule, sans maman!,” but I noticed the little girl wasn't crying...she seemed very content. More so, the other adults that passed by, looked at her and kept walking without breaking a stride. They didn't seem to think a toddler wandering the street alone was a problem. Since there weren't cars, and the locals didn't seem phased, I decided not to say anything. The little girl turned and wandered up the ally and disappeared at the other end. No Mother anywhere, even though I expected a feverish woman to run into view crying, “Ma fille! Ma fille! Quelqu'un a vu ma bebe?!” But it never happened. It leads me to wonder if that's normal here.

• In this same alleyway, there was a pile of dusty, broken abandoned furniture, covered in a sheet. Apparently a mother cat and her kittens had taken refuge in this pile of junk, and the kittens played in and out of the fortress for a good two minutes until another person strode by.

• A stray dog then trotted by, and pawed into the soft sand for a while, turned around in a circle and went to sleep in the ditch it had dug for itself.

• A horse and cart went by and made a delivery at the house, with heavy sacs full of something for the construction work. The horse was severely lame, and it pained me to see it struggle through the sand with all the burden it had to carry. I suppose there wasn't any other choice. The man would be unemployed and the horse would be dead otherwise.

• Another horse and cart came by, and as I was wondering why the cart was full of garbage, the cart stopped at the house. A woman came out and gave the man her garbage can, which he promptly lifted and dumped into the cart. I realized that it was the garbage man.

• Almost directly after this, a silver BMW drove by, and I saw inside a snappily-dressed gentleman in a black suit, tapping a cigarette out his open window, the bright sun causing the roof to gleam.

• A young mother with her head covered but wearing pants, held her tiny son's hand happily, and smiling, led him by to the corner store to buy something. They went back the other direction a little while later carrying a bag, while the boy's big young eyes looked around almost as awestruck as me.

• Several Senegalese men, students, walked by with black backpacks – almost matching each other – with ties on, white button-down shirts tucked in, and nice shoes. They seemed to contradict other men about their age, mid-20's, who wore dirty, beat-up clothing and bare feet or mechanic's uniform covered in soot.

• A woman went from window the window in front of the hotel next to ours, holding out a green plastic bucket. The wore a yellow Senegalese dress, and asked for “ndox, s'il vous plait.”(water). The old man across the street mentioned to her where she could find some. She stopped to chat with him a while, then thanked him, and walked on, swinging the bucket. She was not a beggar woman.

I finally decided that I should try to sleep. I laid down on one of the twin beds, which was hard as a rock – the way I like beds – but I still couldn't fall asleep. The sound of voices greeting each other and laughing outside, the sound of a rock hammer and a drill on a nearby rooftop kept shattering any semblance of unconsciousness. Then I put all my luggage together to get ready for Waly to return. Josh was supposed to come down to my room to go downstairs together to wait, but he didn't come. I waited until five until 1:00, and went up to his room. I said “Salaam Waleikoum” to the maid, and she smiled and answered with the response, and offered to help me find what I was looking for. I said I was looking for number 26, and at that moment, Josh opened the door, half-asleep.

He got his luggage together, and we went down to the lobby, where Josh and I plus our luggage made the room feel extremely cramped. I watched outside through the glass doors, which opened to the same street I had been watching earlier. The tiny television fixed on the wall, which the concierges were intensely watching, was the French channel televising the parade and church service before the inauguration of Obama. They asked us where we were from, and when I said Chicago, the girls said, “Like where Obama is from!” I was starting to expect this response.

We chatted with them to practice our French, and then when they learned we had studied some Wolof, they forced us to say random words we had learned. They were impressed, and smiled immensely when we were speaking, saying that we were already very good at Wolof. It was blatant, undeserved flattery, but we appreciated it nonetheless.

Suddenly we realized that it was nearly 1:30, and Waly still hadn't come. Josh used his phone to call Waly, who said something about being caught up and that he would come soon. We waited until 2:15pm and called again. All the sudden a taxi arrived, and Waly helped us put our luggage in the trunk. Off we went again, down the road, as passers-by looked in the window at us curiously. Waly announced quickly that we were going to an ATM for Josh to get some CFA, and that he was late because he and the other students and program directors were driving around since 11:00 dropping people off at their host family's houses. I assumed it had somehow taken longer than expected.

After getting out at the first ATM and being hassled by every Senegalese that was milling about with fresh produce or necklaces, displaying cardboard signs that said “PROMOTION”, we realized that it didn't work. Back in the taxi.

Next ATM, same adventure getting from the taxi to the machine, but this time the Visa networks were down, and the machine was only temporarily accepting Master card. Back in the taxi.

The next ATM worked, but we had to wait in line for 10 minutes to use it. I talked to Waly for a while in French, but nothing too profound. He seemed like he had a lot on his mind. Back in the taxi when Josh was done.

Off we went, down the highway, and as I absent-mindedly looked out the window, my heart jumped into my throat – aside from the people loitering in the middle of the median amongst the zooming traffic, there were horse and carts like the ones I had seen earlier, trotting happily along on the highway. Not on the side of the highway – on the highway, with the cars and motorcycles. The cars zoomed alongside the horses, as if it was nothing. The horses weren't even galloping as one might expect to at least try to keep up somewhat...it was barely trotting along, right in the middle of the road. When I pointed it out to Waly, he laughed a bit, acting as though it wasn't that weird at all here. When I said that would never happen in the United States, he really didn't have much to say in response. Perhaps I wasn't the first American to point that out.

The highway began to wind to the right and up a small hill, and all the sudden we were driving along side the water – the Atlantic. The bright blue waves shimmered in the bright sunshine, as it gently stroked the beach. Palm trees reached for the sky along the highway the way they do in Las Vegas...but more sporadic, and MUCH taller. Sand covered in paper and other trash spread out until the highway, separating the water and the cars. The sewer smell returned, and I noticed many makeshift market stands along the road, with people trying to, what seemed in vain, attract the attention of motorists to stop and buy their wares. People walked along in groups, gazing nonchalantly at us as we drove by. A gigantic mosque loomed up in front of us, pure white with gigantic tiers with green bulbs on top – true testaments to the influence of Islam in Senegal. Groups of long-horned cattle and more goats were seen as we continued along.

Then the taxi stopped at W.A.R.C., and Waly scrambled around without explaining much, ordering us food from the small exterior kitchen next to some white plastic tables and chairs under a canopy in a cement courtyard. As they cooked us something to eat, he arranged for two girls, representatives apparently of a new cellphone company in Senegal – Expresso – which since it was a new company, their cellphones were very cheap, free calls for the first month, and came with a card with some calling credit on it already – all for 15,000 CFA (~35 dollars). Not a bad deal.

The food was served, and Josh, Waly and I sat down to eat – French fries, an cooked and spiced onion mix to put over the kabobs (beef/goat meat, mushrooms, tomatoes, green peppers). While we ate, drinking from a large bottle of Purified Mineral Water, Waly gave some tips about what to do when we met our host family (make sure to greet them, etc, etc.) Common sense-type stuff.

Then we got our luggage and walked to the bus, while had apparently been waiting there the whole time, with the remaining MSID students on board. We joined Andrew, Henry, Melanie and Seth, along with the program directors; Awa (a very skinny, pretty, sweet girl who always wears blue-themed jewelry and clothing), Josephine (some of you will remember from pictures I showed you), Waly, and another guy who I didn't catch his name. They are all Senegalese.

After dropping the others off, Melanie and I were the last ones. We pulled up in front of an alleyway paved with cobblestone, bright and well-lit. There were trees and some flowers spilling over the wall. We knocked, and a woman answered the door - “Mama Leontine,” our new host mom. She had on a traditional dress on, dark colors, and her head in a wrap of cloth to match. She was the only one home at the time beside the maid, and Melanie and I were sent straight upstairs to put our luggage away. Our room is on the third floor of a very narrow house, compared to what we're used to, with a narrow staircase with no landing, but instead narrow steps paved with tiny stones. When we opened the door, as the MSID program coordinators talked with Madame Diatta downstairs, I saw a larger room than I was expecting, with a small wooden desk on each side of the room, with a 20 foot ceiling above. Two twin beds were separated by an end table with a lamp, the beds covered with sheets that say “L'AMOUR et FLEURS”. Sort of uncomfortably insinuating about sleeping in beds that have been used by years and years of other American students, as we later found out. The Diattas have had quite an extensive relationship with young Americans....which turns out to be both good and bad.

We have our own bathroom, which is nice and private. We don't have to share with Mama Leontine, Papa Ignace, Cathy (18 yrs old), Therese (24), Jean-Marie (30) or Antoine (23). The toilet works fine, although it has a very very low level of water usually – it has a powerful flush, which is important. The only downside is that the shower, although not a bucket shower, is habitually and unavoidably cold. And by cold, I mean FREEZING. It is by far the coldest shower I have ever taken in my life – if you could my “shower” this morning a shower...it consisted of me standing at the end of the water, and gingerly splashing myself, covered in goosebumps and shaking uncontrollably.

With the recent advice of Papa Ignace, I just have to take a deep breath and deal with it until I get used to it. Kind of like jumping into Lake Tahoe in early February. Be jealous.

We used our desks to empty out our suitcases, since there isn't a closet or dresser to work with – and we'd rather not live out of a suitcase for 3 months. It feels more like a bedroom now, and less like someone else's room. Since it's on the third floor, there's no one else that lives up here, and so it's very private.

After we unloaded our suitcases, we returned downstairs. Mama Leontine was ecstatic to have us, and invited us into her living room, where a nice-sized television projected the masses of people at the Presidential inauguration. It was the French channel, so French translators spoke over the English live broadcast on the spot, which I noticed was behind and wrong in several spots....but I couldn't have done better on live television, so I can't really talk. She told us to sit and watch, and as we talked and watched, she suddenly called into the kitchen to the young maid girl who was cleaning the foyer- “Baye! Baye!” Sweep! And then continued her sentence as if nothing happened.

The inauguration was very memorable, especially considering all the references to “the world who is watching this moment,” or “people all over the world,” etc, were very appropriate considering we happened to be witnessing the ceremony from Africa. She was very interested in what was said, and she even teared up when the Pastor said “des beaux mots” beautiful words, and said the Lord's Prayer along with him in French. Oh, I forgot to mention – my family, unlike most of Senegal, is Catholic. They have a Christmas tree still, a tiny one by the television...they have a cross on the wall, and an Africa-style painting hung of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. They also eat at a dining room table, not on the floor – although she assured me today when I inquired about that tradition that is still the primary mode of eating in Muslim households, that they dine in this way on “certain days.”

I have a lot more to write...more later.

Wolof Quote

Xamul aay na, laajtweul a ko raw.
Not to know is bad, but not to seek to know is worse.

One week from today:)

So I figured I should write once more before I leave...also I think we might all look back at this entry for some perspective later on, I have a feeling it's going to be interesting.

The emotions washing over me are overwhelming...everything from 1) sadness to leave my fiance, family and friends for 4 months... 2) panicking that I'm not prepared enough (emotionally, linguistically, etc) 3) worrying that I might not even get along with anyone in the MSID program (like what happened when I went to Ecuador...not being able to connect to people about what I'm experiencing), 4) panicking about not being able to handle the less delicate aspects of life in Senegal (aka pooping in a hole in the ground, cold-water bucket showers)....
As well as several really ridiculous fears - I acknowledge this - that I am trying to overcome: 5) the fear that the plane might crash and I will never get there in the first place 6) I might get raped or 5)mugged or 6) lost or 7) that I might die from a rare African disease.

This last bit is something I always do before I travel. I conjure up the worst idea I can think of about what could happen to me, and I obsess about it. For example, before going to Ecuador last year, my Dad told me about an article he had read, only a few days before I had to leave; about a Peace Corps worker who had tripped on a riffle trigger while hiking in the jungle in Ecuador and had both her legs blown off. She died on the way to the hospital. What an awesome story, huh Dad? Knowing I had to face similar wilderness and unknown territories, I began to panic before I left...what if something happened to me out there, in the middle of nowhere? What if I never came home? My friend didn't help by telling me that her Dad, who travels for business all the time, said that South America has the highest rate of kidnappings in the world - especially Americans.

So let me explain this fear that I'm going to die from a tropical disease. A friend of mine who spent a year in Senegal told me that during his time there, a girl he knew was traveling to Mali with some friends. En route on their sept-place (an open flatbed truck for 7 people), she began to complain of a headache. She then fell asleep, and her friends did not awake her, thinking sleep would be good to make her feel better. Unfortunately, the girl never woke up...and being in the middle of nowhere with no access to hospitals certainly didn't improve her chances. He said he didn't know what she died from...it was probably some unknown African disease.

Something in my rational cranial hemisphere says, "Dammit, calm down." My friend did admit that this girl wasn't being smart about her health, in the weeks prior to her death. She wasn't drinking enough water, she was staying out in the sun too long and hadn't had much rest. These factors along can make someone more susceptible to the wide range of unknown foreign illness. I know that this was a rare case, and as long as I follow the rules of travel (food and water-wise), get plenty of rest, and don't take stupid chances...I will be fine.

Also, I fully acknowledge the necessary element of understanding the potential dangers. Learning from other people's unfortunate mistakes will ultimately make the rest of us better travelers.

I also would like to remind myself, in light of my ridiculous fears, of the inordinate amount of biased media toward developing countries, especially those in Africa. They are portrayed as land mines of violence and brutality, danger around every corner; that travel there is near-suicide. You all would be surprised how many blank stares and/or horrified expressions, nearly always followed by a comment of concern, "Why would you want to go there?" You can almost see the screenplay in their heads of 'Africa'....malnourished babies...AIDS...man-eating lions...desert...Blood Diamond/Hotel Rwanda...insurgents killing innocent civilians...corrupt governments...danger...danger... Perhaps these fears have burrowed deep into me as well, on a subconscious level - which is why I find myself struggling with the aspect of putting myself there in the flesh.

Even though I can justify to myself that these comments are simply rooted in lack of exposure to places like Senegal, and holes in our Euro-centric education system...this still doesn't prevent me from asking myself the question - "Why AM I going there?" I light of all my fears and trepidations, why am I not content to simply study Senegal - or any other "dangerous" place - in the comfort of my apartment? What is the advantage to igniting all these fears, and overcoming them?

And therein lies the answer. It is not only imperative for me as a human being, to broaden my cultural horizons (and other such B.S.), to expand my understanding of the world and its peoples, to further explore myself from the inside out (my adaptability, my ability to overcome challenges, risks and situations outside my comfort zone) --- but also to bring my experiences back home. To educate those who are horrified for my sake, who can't understand why anyone would travel to such a god-forsaken place.

The one thing I do have, is the ability to counter my unfounded fears based on a biased media - with my own level of knowledge. I feel I have adequately studied Africa, and Senegal in particular - it's history, politics, social movements, economics, etc - enough to know the root of the problems that do exist, and to rationalize and conceive of the true situation there. Through the courses I have taken, and the local Congolese immigrants I have interacted with through our student-run group, the Francophone Community Partnership, at school - I feel I can reason with myself past these fears. I know better. Africa is not the wild, unbridled, anarchic place of destruction that the media would have us believe. My experience with Africa and Africans leads me to believe these things:

• Yes, there is political corruption which robs people of some of their basic rights. This problem exists almost across the continent. However, the extent to which this is a problem varies from country to country. The DRC, as the Congolese tell me, is MUCH worse than most of Africa. Senegal happens to be one of the leading role models in the effectiveness of fair democracy and human rights in Africa. Senegal has had no violence related to the discontent of its leaders - or violence at all. The only violence that has occurred in Senegal were demonstrations last year due to the spike in staple food prices - as has happened all over the world. And if you still question the safety of a country which I've admitted deals with corruption on some concealed level -- perhaps we should also question the extent to which our own governments, and those of other developed countries, operate with some degree of corruption (Rod Blagojevich anyone?)
• And on a more positive note:

1. Africans love to party. This seems to a universal theme I have come across. Their partying abilities put ours to shame, so I must expect this. Partying with the Congolese has left us, the Americans, dog-tired and finished at 1 or 2 in the morning - leaving the Congolese to party until the sun came up.
   
2. The music is amazing...I am addicted now, especially to soukous/zouka music, as well as a variety of other African genres. I love Ghanaian music, as well as Congolese. African dancing is fun and group-inclusive - and they won't take no for an answer, if you're shy.
   
3. The food is interesting to say the least. I can't rave about all of it...some of the Congolese food I've had was disgusting. But I CAN say that I tried all of it, and I am really excited about having goat meat, for example, which is also popular in Senegal. I found that I love tasting new cuisines, no matter how 'unappetizing' it may look...it's a rush for me, and I enjoy it when a completely new flavor bombards my taste buds. I pity picky eaters.
4. Pictures I've seen, and Congolese weddings and parties have proven that Africa is a colorful place. The bright yellows, greens, blues and reds are astounding when they contrast African skin. If you find that comment racist - I don't care, it's my blog. They are comfortable, beautiful and eye-catching. I am definitely going to have some tailored for me.
5. African people themselves are warm, hospitable and generous. What I have learned in my African studies classes confirm this - and it's rooted in a long cultural history of interdependence and collective identity (a "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" scenario). This attitude is valued in societies where wealth is often hard to come by, and you succeed in life with the support of your friends. The American Dream of self-determinism, the "every man for himself," and the "I can do it by myself" attitude does not translate to most African culture. The idea of family, as well, does not exclude neighbors and friends...and they accept that people cannot 'do it alone.' Why would they? Life is much better lived with friends at your side.

I could be totally wrong in all I just mentioned. None of these points may apply to Senegal at all and I could be completely surprised. All I'm saying is after learning from my African friends over my years at U. of I. (from Kenya, Ethiopia, Ghana, Senegal, Cameroon and the DRC), these are my experiences and they help to shape a more multi-dimensional conception of Africa, than I otherwise would have. This way when I think of Africa I think color, life, warmth, hospitality, great music and rich history - instead of poverty, violence, war and animals at the zoo.

As I was saying before, I feel that while I'm in Senegal, I will act as an ambassador for the United States. I will represent this country, while also immersing myself in Senegalese society. I will be a quiet observer, while wholeheartedly participating in the culture that awaits me. I will try my hardest to get everything out of this experience as I can; take as many photos as I can without being an obnoxious tourist, write as I go, and speak to people - in Wolof, and French. And when the time is up, I hope I will have sufficient stuff up in my head to draw conclusions and learn from everything - enough to have more than one answer to that question when I return home, "Why would you want to go to Africa?"