So I think this time I will go in order of what happened last week.

This was our first week of classes, so I suppose I will post my schedule as well:

• Monday:

  • Research Methods from 9-11am

  • Country Analysis from 12-2pm

  • Wolof from 4-6pm

• Tuesday:

  • No class!

• Wednesday

  • Advanced International Development from 9-12pm

  • Advanced French from 2-4pm

  • Wolof from 4-6pm

• Thursday

  • Country Analysis from 12-2pm

  • Micro finance from 3-6pm

• Friday

  • Wolof from 3-6pm

What I mean by “advanced” is that on Monday, two sheets were passed around on which we were meant to mark if we thought we were better suited for “Advanced French/International Development,” or the lower level. I put advanced for both, considering I have taken a fair amount of development classes, etc. So far it's been fine.

What's frustrating about these classes is that the Micro finance professor has canceled class this week, and also was absent for the professor presentations on Monday. I have yet to meet him, and I have no idea how the class will be. In addition, the other professors I have (except the French professor), are a bit disorganized by American standards. The assignments are random, the notes are like long, complete paragraphs which we are made to copy in their entirety, and they are difficult to follow. They also switch between French and English, which is aggravating to me. I would rather they stick to one or the other. I, for example, was designated out of the class for no particular reason, to watch 6 videos on you tube and make a presentation about it next week....everyone else just had to read a short article. The only reason I was chosen for this, is that he had meant to show these videos in class, but the Wi-Fi internet wasn't working. I really enjoy my French class however, because the subject matter relates to development...like my other classes, it is taught in French, but it is more directed toward vocabulary we don't know, etc. We watched a documentary in French about solid waste management in a small town in Senegal, which was organized by a middle-aged American couple who was doing the Peace Corps.

The classes are very long, as you might have noticed...we usually get 10-15 minute breaks. Also, it is nice that we usually have a few hours between classes, which allows us to walk down the block and get lunch. I'm going to cut down on how much I've been spending, but the past week we've been going to this restaurant called The Gondole, which has everything from pizza to pasta to Senegalese food, etc. I've been having the Chwarma Royale – which has hard boiled eggs, beef, fries, cheese, tomatoes, and spices wrapped up in a pita, for 1,500 CFA (~4 dollars). It's delicious. I've also had sugar-coated peanuts, which are sold everywhere on the street and are very good.

So on Tuesday last week, since I didn't have any class, four other students and I decided to take a trip downtown to go to an Art Museum (IFAN). Henry hailed a cab using his superior French skills – because he was born/lives in Paris with his American parents - (which sort of irritated me, because I haven't been given the opportunity to practice MY French). He eventually was able to get a taxi after 6 tries, in only five minutes, who would take five Americans downtown for only 1,500 CFA. This was even a bit high, but we decided to go anyway.

We got out near the American embassy in downtown Dakar. We asked a policeman where to find the art museum, and this turned out to be a mistake. Picture a man, about 5ft11 wearing blue patterned army pants, leather vest and carrying a M16 around his chest. Nothing serious, in fact, it was amusing at the time as well...but the policeman said, “I'll make you a deal...I'll tell you where IFAN is, and you tell me how I can get a toubab girlfriend.” He was smiling the entire time, and we said, “Well, go to a bar!” And he said, “No, I want one of these toubabs.” Sonya said, “We can't go with you, we're from different cultures.” And he said, “There are some things that are the same in every culture,” and he winked. While the boys laughed and were of no help, I said “We're sorry, we're already married.” At that point, he feigned disappointment, and Henry and Seth said, “We're going to go...thanks for the help, girls are you coming?” And so we started to leave, and the police officer said, “I choose this one (me), because she has “la poitrine la plus genereuse.”” (You can look that up for yourself if you wish to know what it means:) ). I took it as a compliment and walked away.

We found our way to the museum, which I have a photo of. It's a giant white building with a circle drive...but when we went inside, we realized it wasn't as big as we expected it to be. It was advertised in one of our travel guides as being the most extensive collection of West African art and artificats in Africa...and we realized that wasn't saying much. It was two floors, and only about as big as maybe ¾ of the ground floor of the Union at U of I. Perhaps smaller.

After haggling student prices at the door (we got in for 1,200 CFA), we went a winding marble staircase to the top floor. Light spilled in through the windows, to illuminate a sparse room with wooden floors. Glass cases displayed about 30 or so fertility statues sat silently in the empty room. No other tourists were in the entire museum, until we were about to leave an hour later. The statues were eerie, not human-like in the way we're used to...with pointed breasts (the ones with sagging breasts symbolized women who had given birth to many children), protruding belly buttons, and delicately crafted designs on their bodies. Their limbs were long and bony, holding babies that looked more like animals than children. There were oblong, gigantic structures resembling birds or other animals, with industrial, metal carvings along the outside. Henry tried to take a picture, but the guard that had been following us around, said that normally each picture taken in the museum costs 200 CFA. He said he would let the first one go, but any other photos we took would cost us.

We went downstairs and found on either side of the entrance hall, a middle area which had been arranged as a larger-than life diorama of many of the different ethnic groups of Africa – which have since been nearly all wiped out. It was a near-living testament to the way of life that existed in pre-colonial Africa, mannequins wearing masks made of shells, gigantic horns on their heads, and dazzling or sometimes frightening costumes. They explained each of the ceremonies that were being represented, and a bit about the people who had lived in these communities. Woven baskets, masks of all shapes, colors, textures and sizes were displayed along the walls...but all in all, not much was mentioned about dates. In the exhibit upstairs, there were no dates to tell us when these artifacts were excavated, or used. Senegal doesn't have the financial capacity to date these items, or to research them further. The majority of the other artifacts from Africa were plundered, bought or taken by the colonists, and are now displayed in museums across the United States and Europe.

We walked out and found a small restaurant upstairs of a French-style patesserie nearby, since I was the only one who hadn't eaten breakfast or lunch. I had a Chwarma again, although I preferred the one at The Gondole. I also had the best Mango smoothie juice thingy I'd ever had. It was made in Morocco. It was delicious.

We then hailed a taxi and went home – we got the price we wanted after 4 tries...Henry said he figured out that the LESS polite you are, the more likely you are to get the price you want. You have to act severely angry at the cab driver, as in, how dare he suggest that you pay that price? You will NOT pay anything less than your price. The more polite Henry was, the less the cab drivers would back down.

Wednesday was filled with classes, and life at home...although one thing happened that struck me for the rest of this week.

Street children are a very common sight around here. Having seen countless, shoe less children with runny noses, dirt on their faces, and ragged clothing pulling me sleeve for money...I have to be honest when I say it doesn't affect me anymore. Yes, I have become desensitized to pitiful street children. These children, as my host brother Antoine told me, are from all of West Africa...not only Dakar, or Senegal. They're either orphans or their parents can't afford to take care of them. They are sent to Dakar to attend Les Ecoles Coranique, or Koranic Schools, which are basically dirty, cramped houses which house tons of little boys who sleep on cots...and they are made to recite certain phrases from the Koran. There is no interpretation, no arithmetic, no literature...no sense of education as we know it in the states. If the boys make a mistake or talk out of turn, they are severely beaten. During the day, they are made by the marabou, or instructor (sometimes means spiritual leader), to stand on the street corner and beg. They are told to bring back a certain amount of money a day, to be able to stay at the school. Since the boys have no other choice, they are found all over the city, following toubabs for blocks. We have been told multiple ways to say no to them, including, “Baax na,” (c'est bon, it's good), and “Amuma xalis” (I don't have any money). At night these boys are the victims of pedophellic rape, as people take advantage of them, or people who offer them money in exchange for sexual gratification. Again, these boys often can't say no.

So I have become desensitized to this already. I oftentimes don't even look at their faces. If you look into the face of a beggar, including a mother with her breasts out, where an tiny infant is suckling, they try to catch your eye to see if there is an inkling of sympathy...or they attempt to instill sympathy by coming closer and becoming more relentless...or touching your elbow, and sobbing. If you don't look at them, they realize there isn't a chance you will give them money, so they stop following you. Most of it is an act...we were wondering the other day if the marabou gives the boys lessons on how to look pitiful, and how to pinpoint a rich toubab from across the street. We were speculating on whether these boys have cleaner clothing at home, but their “uniform” consists of no shoes and the most raggedy clothing they can find to instill more pity.

But on Wednesday, I was walked toward home, and a tiny child began skipping along side me. He was just as dirty as all the rest, but he was the youngest beggar I'd ever seen. He couldn't have been more than four or five years old. He barely came up to my waste, and began shouting happily, “Bonjour, Madam!” He didn't seem to realize why he had been sent out on the street, as if it was his first day on the job. It broke my heart. Unlike the others, who were trying all the tricks of the trade to get into my pocket, here was this tiny boy who hadn't yet realized the reality of his situation. My heart leapt in my chest, and tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to keep walking. I smiled at him, and he smiled back.

I suddenly had a vivid thought, that I should snatch him up, and run home with him in my arms. I pictured myself running into the house, running upstairs three flights to my room, and locking the door...bringing him into the shower, peeling off his dusty, dirty clothing, wiping his face clean, and giving him new clothes to wear. I wanted to so badly. I then questioned why that would be a bad thing. If I took him home and cared for him...why was it that it was guaranteed, that when Mama Leontine found out I had brought a street rat into her home and cleaned him, I would probably get in huge trouble? Why wasn't that an acceptable thing to do? Why was I expected to just keep walking away?

This bothered me throughout the entire week.

On Thursday, I got a call from Adam Carter, who is the son of some of my parents' friends from Etz Chaim (our synagogue). He is in his early thirties, and does humanitarian work all over the world for 9 months out of every year, spending his summers selling beer at Wrigley Field. I had emailed him a few weeks ago, telling him what I was doing in Africa, what I was studying, and that if he was ever passing by Dakar, to give me a call. So he did, this past Thursday. He said there was a really popular Senegalese musician named Cheikh Lo (Shek lo), who was going to be performing that night at 9:00pm at the French Cultural Center in downtown Dakar. He asked if I wanted to go, and for only 3,000 CFA I couldn't refuse.

I called up the others from our group, who decided to stay home and work on the papers we had due the next day...but I had already finished mine. Henry, Josh and I decided to go.

We met halfway in the middle, at My Shop, which is a convenient store with fast food at the intersection where most of us meet on the way to W.A.R.C. in the morning for classes. We took a cab downtown, and when we arrived, we were a little unnerved. It was a pretty narrow street, with cars whizzing by, people milling about in the darkness, French and Senegalese alike, and at the giant green steel gate (the kind where you can't see what's on the other side), there were two policeman who were not allowing anyone in. Then the gate opened, and they threw out a man who had become unruly, and he began to fight the other people around him. I was glad I had decided not to go on my own, and clung to Josh and Henry, who towered over me. I was pushed backward a bit into them, but the policeman were taking care of it, and he was taken away down the street. Two women with their breasts out pushed into me, moaning softly for money, while they babies cried. We were not fazed by this at all.

We ignored all the commotion and proceeded to talk to the guards about getting into the concert. He said entrance was impossible because the tickets had already been sold out. I said I had a friend waiting inside, and so the guard permitted me to call him. Adam came out and met us, and we stood there talking for a while on the sidewalk about what to do. He said he was going to catch the rest of the show, and we could try to find a bar if we wanted. Instead, at that moment, a man came up to us and offered us scalped tickets for 5,000 CFA. Since it still wasn't that bad of a deal, we took him up on his offer, and got inside.

The French Cultural Center really isn't a center at all...we walked along a dirt path outside beneath palm trees, to a small amphitheater where the show was already in progress. It's all outside, with a garden and an outdoor cafe. We walked in front of the stage as non discretely as we could, until we got up to Adam's seats that he had been saving for us. We finally sat down, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Cheikh Lo had dread locks down to his waist, as was the epitome of Rastafarian African. His music was an entrancing mixture of traditional African drum beats and acoustic reggae. There was flashing colored lights and fog, while he said and sang. Henry took videos of some of the songs, so I'll get a copy of that soon. At some point in one of the songs, one of the musicians in the back, had what's called a “talking drum”, which is a small drum held against his chin, sort of like one would hold a violin. He stepped out into the light, while fog was expelled all around him, and he began to rapidly play on the drum, his fingers flying, his body swaying with the rhythm he was creating. It was mezmorizingly fast, and after about two minutes, he stopped and stepped back, to the applause of the crowd. People from the crowd got up and began to dance in front of the stage, toubab and black alike, from Salsa to traditional dancing. Three professional dancers got up on stage, as well as Cheikh Lo's own two small children, and began to dance. The small children were adorable, and the son was actually extremely good. He was watching the professional dangers intently, and then would try and attempt the moves that they were performing. The three men were dressed in colorful, baggy costumes which swayed with their movements, coordinated with each step. They were using their entire body, shaking their shoulders in time with the drums, pointing rhythmically to the sky with their arms, and then breaking into breathtaking displays of Senegalese dance which includes the flailing about in midair, where no more than the ball of one foot is one the ground at once. It is amazing coordinational and physical skill, and these dances last only about a minute, before the dancer, breathless, steps back into a more relaxed step with the other two.

It was truly an exciting night, and I am really glad I went. Josh and Henry had an awesome time too, and were really happy I had invited them. It turns out that Josh had already had some of Cheikh Lo's music on his Ipod, and was really excited to see him in person.