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.
1 comment:
Dani. I can't tell you how proud I am of you for having the courage to take this on. Your insights, observations and ability to put it into writing is amazing. You are going to be a great ambassador for your country while you are there. I am looking foward to more entries and pictures.
Love,
Dad
Post a Comment