Monday, March 30, 2009
So this weekend was a whirlwind of new experiences, most of which I think I handled like a champ. (With one exception, that I'll get into in a minute.)
When we had gone to Mame's house (the Grandmother with no nose), Mamy Samb(the girl who is my age) had asked if I would be coming back Saturday for her sister (?)'s 15th birthday party. I said of course I would, but it would depend on my family, etc, and what our plans were. I remembered that Yaay had said something about going to a neighboring village to talk about renewable resources, something something, but it turned out later that she was “too tired” and cancelled it. Imagining birthday cakes and candles, only in a cement, dingy Fatick house, I was excited. I thought the only major difference would be “Happy Birthday” sung in Wolof.
The next day I woke up at 10:00am, just because I heard kids screaming while they played, outside my window in the courtyard. I got up and walked out the door, to find cold fonde (porridge with lait caille) on the table...which had been waiting for me since 7:00am. After being teased by everyone in the house for “sleeping late” (on a Saturday...), I realized that the weekends are no exception to 5:00am prayer and breakfast by 7:00. No more partying until 5:00 in the morning and waking up at 11:30 like in Dakar...different family, different rules. Oh well.
I wrote in my blog, had lunch, then ataaya, and then I decided to go to the internet cafe. I posted some pictures and my blog, talked to Beka, and then met Modou (yes, I now know the 14 year old's name!...short for Mamadou)...and we walked together to Mame's house for the party. Hang on – the kids name's are:
Assan (the oldest – 18)
Modou (14)
Roqueille (I think that's how you spell it...at least the French way, 12)
Pende (girl “penday” 9)
Seydou (boy...the cousin who's parents lives in another town...he prefers to live with his cousins, since he's an only child...6)
Ngone (3)
Hadith (20 something?? the maid)
Ok so anyway, we started walking just as the sun was setting. After greeting everyone in the house, including Abdoullaye's youngest brother who is my age who is always in bed because he burned his legs in an accident. (His leg up to his knee is pinkish red..I can't figure out if that's how black skin looks when its badly burned, or if it's some sort of medicine he has to put on it). After looking at photos of him and his wife (who are my age) at their wedding....99% of which was his wife, all done up like a mannequin/prostitute with more makeup than I've ever seen in my life, fake-looking and white with drawn on purple eyebrows...I realized that the 2 year old son that they have was probably born before or shortly after the wedding – and probably had a lot to do with the wedding itself. People were holding the baby in the photo album not long after the wedding had taken place. Interesting.
We went out the back door to see a tent had been set up in the sand in between the houses, with a gigantic mat underneath. There were about 40 people sitting inside and standing around...this number greatly increased as the night went on. I sat in a chair that had been brought for me, even though I preferred to stand. Abdoullaye's other brother – older? - was sitting next to me dressed in full Senegalese Muslim gett-up, a sleek white boubou, a man's scarf, a Muslim head-cap, and fondling his chatelet (Muslim rosaries). He was very excited to talk to me and once he realized that I'm American, he started speaking broken English. I was really surprised and have no idea where he would have learned English, especially at his age...mid 40's. I know there are English classes in Fatick, but I'm not sure what would have provoked him to take them...except maybe his own personal interest. I like him a lot, although I forgot his name. He introduced himself as Gillay (I think), and was very nice, joking with me and making sure I was comfortable.
My family showed up after a while in style, the only people who drove up in a car. I'm starting to think the Sow's have some sort of elevated status in Fatick, but I'm not sure. They informed me that “il faut manger un peu”, meaning we would go home to have dinner and then return. I would learn later that unlike in the States, even if you miss a meal by more than 4 or 5 hours and it's fast approaching the next meal anyway, they still prefer to eat the meal....even if you're having “lunch” at 5:30 at night. So we all piled into the car and drove home. We ate ciep bu jen, I changed clothes (although I wish I would have had the sense to wear my Senegalese clothing again), and returned to the party.
By this time the tent was packed...girls sitting crammed together on one side, boys on the other, drummers in the back, and the marabou at the other end overseeing everything. I found Abdoullaye's brother again, who motioned for me to sit by him outside the tent...but just then, Mamy Samb came over and excitedly pulled me down the center isle, toward the Marabou. “Il faut saluer le marabou d'abord,” she said, and I had a fleeting thought that I was about to see the Marabou about converting to Islam...but of course this wasn't the case, although someone teased me later about it (it actually didn't occur to me that she was kidding at first). I took off my sandals first, and placed them on the sand, and followed Mamy Samb.
I was handed a white scarf to cover my hair, of course, and knelt down in front of the Marabou, who was a man in his late 30's, very tall, in a dark maroon choup boubou. He made me put my hands out in front of me, and repeat after him some pretty complicated phrases in Arabic. I had no idea what I was reciting, and the thought came again that I could be saying anything...”Allah is great, yes I want to be a Mauride Muslim like everyone here...Cheikh Amadou Bamba is the good path...” But I'm 99% sure I was simply reciting a blessing, as one would do at a church. When he was finished blessing me, I had to touch me hands to my forehead and then my heart.
After this, I stood up, towering over everyone who was seated before me on my right and left. I had a feeling – and I was right – that they wouldn't allow me to just discretely sit back down...I was now a spectacle, everyone had been watching me with the marabou. “Danse!! Feccal!” Mamy Samb said, smiling, breathless. So I did. The drums raced through me, and I started to move...everyone laughed and clapped, I knew I looked ridiculous. So I decided to turn up the ridiculousness by doing a horrible version of mbalax...I bent over slightly at the waist, put my arms out and moved them in time to the beat, while bouncing my bent knees in and out rhythmically. As soon as I did this, the crowd went wild...screaming and stomping their feet. Laughing as if to say, “Yea, I know that was silly...I'm a toubab, and I'm here for your enjoyment,” I followed Mamy Samb down the isle toward the girl's side, where we were crammed in among everyone else on the mat.
Then the party started...the marabou, along with some other people such as Abdoullaye's older brother, spoke in rapid Wolof about the faith, Islam, Cheikh Amadou Bamba, etc. etc...I didn't understand a word of it. Then the drums began again, and everyone took turns stepping out into the center isle and dancing for everyone...as I expected, as is customary in Senegal. I knew I would have to dance again. So I pulled Roqueille out into the middle with me, and her, Mamy Samb and I danced together for everyone. Abdoullaye's brother and Yaay caught my eye and gave me a thumb's up sign, and I laughed. I knew I wasn't that good, but it didn't seem to bother me...no one expected very much, and there were some other girls that danced that weren't that good either. Some of the men, however, were amazing...they jumped around and thrashed their body, all of it, around in time to the music in such a way that looked like they were doing some kind of sporting event...it was pretty impressive. I have it on video.
After a few hours, Nescafe was passed around in colorful plastic cups, which was welcomed...except that I was really hot from dancing, and hot coffee wasn't really what I would have preferred. It tasted like drinking syrup, since there was so much sugar inside...I suppose that's normal, everything must taste like ataaya. It was good.
At about 10:30, I started getting tired...I'm now used to going to bed early and getting up early. Everyone else was too, apparently, because Yaay came and motioned for all of us to get up and leave. We piled into the car and drove off home. There hadn't been any birthday cake, nor had the birthday girl really been celebrated, except for her dance sessions...but it was still something I'll never forget.
The next morning I woke up at 6:15 and was ready by quarter to 7:00 to go to the market...which was the time that Yaay had told me to be ready the night before. She had said, very sternly, that we were going to “quitter la maison” (leave the house) BEFORE 7:00. However, when I opened the door to my bedroom, which looks out into the foyer/dining room/living room area in the front of the house, I didn't see anyone. It was dead quiet and still sort of dark.
I looked outside, and still didn't see anyone. Maybe I had missed her? But the car was still parked in the courtyard, so I was really confused. Finally, at 7:01, I went into the second living room that we never use, and knocked on her bedroom door. Her door opened, and there was Yaay, all dressed and ready to go. She asked me if Abdoullaye was back from praying yet, and I said I hadn't seen him. Apparently he was coming too. The kids then woke up one by one, and went out to the hole to use the bathroom. Breakfast was served at 7:20, and we were still sitting around at 7:45. Ngone was sicker than usual, and was whining and whimpering on Yaay's lap. Then Abdoullaye came home and poured himself some local tea. I had some too, and he teased me about not using the entire powdered milk packet...which is a TON in it. It was the same powdered milk packets that I had bought and used at WARC, and none of us had ever used an entire packet at once. I was used to using just a spoonful. He used an entire packet, until his enormous cup of tea looked nearly white. I tried dumping the entire thing into my cup, which made the tea taste a lot different...less of a bite, and more smooth. I think I'll drink it the right way from now on.
The chauffer, Modou, then woke up, sleepy eyed and groggy ... apparently he had spent the night in order to be up at the right time to drive us. Yes, they have their own private sept-place and driver. We piled in the car together eventually, after 8:00, and left. The road was bumpy and full of potholes, and after about 45 minutes, we entered Kaolac. It looked like a slightly bigger version of Fatick, white cement stores and buildings everywhere, sandy roads, people milling about everywhere, goats, donkeys, etc. We stopped off at a house, and a woman in a bright pink, peach, flowery boubou (looked like a moo moo) got into the car. I knew immediately that it was Yaay's sister...same voice, same face, same gestures, only a slightly different nose...and her sister was a much larger woman. They got pretty enthusiastic in the car with each other, and the men in front were silent as a result. No one could get a word in edgewise...at one point as I was dozing off, Maga (?) let out a deafening, screeching laugh like a train squealing to a halt...and I was torn from my sleep.
We continued on through the dry landscape toward the center of Senegal, close to Mali. The sun became blisteringly hot. Then suddenly we were there, we saw large white buses which had come from Dakar, Pikine, etc, to transport people to the market. Apparently this was a huge deal. We descended from the car to see plenty of tents, people, animals being bought and sold and dragged around by ropes, fruits, vegetables, cooking wares, shoes, clothes, and restaurants...meaning some women cooking, with a few benches under a tent. I followed Yaay and her sister through the maze of tents, while Abdoullaye apparently preferred to go his own separate way. Modou stayed by the car. I felt bad for him later...buying some arachides (peanuts), mille (millet) and corn would take much longer than I would have ever anticipated.
As we walked through the 'isles', people passing by were worse, in regard to looking at me, than I have ever experienced. I assume white people in this market is a rare thing...I even got the impression it has never happened, but instinct tells me it must have. Young boys who were driving donkey carts turned all the way around to look at me, men shouted at me, people followed me, women carrying vegetables or peanuts or baggies of bissap juice came up to me and asked my name in Wolof – and when I actually answered them, screamed with delight and slapped me high five. Eventually Yaay or her sister had to tell them to leave us alone.
After searching for at least half an hour with everyone who was selling peanuts, Yaay began to complain that the price was too high. Apparently since it's almost Easter and close to l'hivernage, or the rainy season, all the last of the stock/harvest becomes ridiculously expensive. She was looking for 20 kilos of arachides, for 450 CFA a kilo. They were asking for 600-800 CFA.
As we were walking around, I saw a meat stand...a table where men were hacking fresh meat with machetes, and pieces of animal was dangling from the bar above. Two small goats, under a year old, a brownish and white one and a gray and white one, stood silently, tied together at their ankles, accepting their fate. Horrified, I asked Yaay if they were “les prochains d'etre tues??” (the next to be killed). She nonchalantly replied that they were. About an hour later we passed by the same meat stand, to see their skinned and roasted heads on the table, eyeballs bluish and staring, mouths open. They had been gutted and their meat was now hanging above them. My stomach turned and I had to look away.
Finally we found a stand off to the side, with a blanket laid out on the ground. Piles of corn, millet, and peanuts were on top. Yaay and her sister plunged their hand into the peanuts and turned over handfuls with their fingers, checking the quality. They decided the quality was good, and after haggling for a while, got the price they wanted for them. But it wasn't that simple.
I knew we'd be there a while when they all motioned for me to sit down. I sat down on the concrete step in the shade, while I watched Yaay and her sister haggle and discuss in rapid Wolof with the man there. I must admit...most people at the market, especially those selling agricultural products, were women, and I was surprised to see a man.
To be honest, however, for the 45 minutes we were sitting there behind his tarp on the cement step, I sort of blanked out...two months ago I would have been jittery and restless and seriously annoyed...but I guess I developed an extremely high tolerance and patience now. I have no idea what was taking so long...I suppose they were still contemplating if they wanted to give them the price. But my sitting there was an open opportunity for everyone passing by to come over and talk to me. This is fine, but tiring after a while. It always goes the same way, simple salutations, which delights everyone when I get it right. Then they move on to something really complicated, which I don't get, but they persist...just because I know how to say “I'm American, My name is Danielle, I don't want to buy anything,” doesn't mean I am fluent in Wolof. They don't seem to understand this...so it turns into a lot of laughing, smiling and “degguma”.
Finally the guy began to fill our sacs with peanuts...and I was made to count the cupfuls up till 50. Then we started to walk away, putting the bags on a donkey cart to bring to the car. Before that, I asked where I could buy some bissap or buiy...the sun was hot and I hadn't drank anything all day. Yaay's sister ended up buying me a plastic bottle of bissap from a girl, who was about 10 years old, who was selling them out of a small cooler for 50 CFA. I chugged it, and then after the three of us were finished, we returned the bottles to the girl. Everything gets recycled here, as far as bottles and glasses. Whenever we buy Coca Cola, which usually comes in a glass bottle, we have to pay a deposit and we get that money back if we return the bottle the next day or right after, which ever comes first.
We went back to the car, where we sat under a tree with some other people who were sitting as well. I assumed they were waiting for other people to come fill up the white buses back to other regions of Senegal, before they could leave. Most public transportation is like that here. After about 20 minutes of writing in her notebook, Yaay suddenly stood up, distressed, and demanded that we return to the peanut guy. She told me, after speaking in rapid Wolof to her sister, that she had accidentally paid double what she was supposed to. I followed her back into the market, cringing, knowing this was going to be an awkward – and probably prolonged – process to get her money back.
We weaved back through all the stands, back toward the man who sold the peanuts. We all were invited to sit back down on the cement step. For the next half an hour, Yaay discussed, and sometimes yelled, with the peanut guy. I heard “jafe jafe” and “ligeey” (problems/difficulties...work). I assumed the guy was trying to tell Yaay that work was hard for him, and basically trying to convince Yaay to just leave the extra money with him. She wouldn't hear of it, but she began by sympathizing with him, agreeing with him, “Degg la, Degg la, Degg la, Degg la” (It's true, It's true, etc, etc). The peanut man suddenly stood up and turned to me, crying out in French, “Si tu veux acheter un ane, tu ne peux pas vendre un ane!” (If you want to buy a donkey, you can't sell a donkey!) I assumed this meant, “You can't buy what you don't have/can't sell”...meaning he didn't want to sell the peanuts for less than he paid for them, he was saying he had to make a profit. It was a rhetorical question, to bring me into the conversation to gain external sympathy...But then Yaay pleaded her own case, telling him what the peanuts were for – I heard her explain in Wolof about Case Foyer and the women's group, the mutuelle, and how these peanuts were going to help women in micro credit projects. Eventually this softened him up, and we left. She explained to me that he successfully “reimbursed her”.
On the way back, we went into a small tent and sat down around a table. It was obviously a restaurant, and I got excited that we were going to eat. But a woman came in and after chatting with us, she cleaned up the table and no food came. I realized after a few minutes that we were there to buy 'l'huile d'arachide', peanut oil. It's supposedly really expensive, especially this stuff, which is made with the traditional method. She filled up two and a half 10-litre plastic jugs with an empty wine bottle, transferring the oil from a huge bucket to the jugs, which we carried back to the car. On the way, we haggled for another 15 minutes with a man for tomatoes.
When we returned, Modou helped us transfer the sacs off the cart and onto the ground next to the car. Since Abdoullaye wasn't back yet from whatever he was doing, we sat under the tree again with the other people. They asked Yaay questions about me, asking who I was, and unfortunately Yaay told them “Degg na Wolof” and I laughed and said “Tuuti rekk,” (“She understands Wolof,” “Only a little”). The man next to me took one of the plentiful colored plastic teapots and washed his feet and face, spitting out the water from his mouth through his teeth.
For the next hour and a half we sat under the tree, time creeping by, waiting for Abdoullaye. Yaay called him several times, and said he was just taking his time. She tried to tell him to wait for another week, because the prices were too high, but he wouldn't listen.
Finally, Abdoullaye approached in his black nylon track suit...a sight to see among all the traditional clothing. I asked him if he was hot, “Danga tang?” and obviously he was, he was wiping the sweat from his face, and said, “Yes, but I wear this to prevent the dust from getting on my skin.” He then wiped his finger on my arm, for I was wearing a tank top, to demonstrate his point; a ton of red dust came off on his finger.
Right behind Abdoullaye, Modou was dragging a large white ram. He had horns but they weren't so long. My heart skipped a beat as I watched this, for the last hour I had been listening to another young ram crying in distress who was tied to a car nearby, with less than a foot leeway. Now we would have one of our own to bring home. They tied the ram to the wheel of our car, where it was obviously upset. It cried in low grunts, lowering its neck to the ground whenever Modou jumped over it on top of the car to put the sacs of peanuts on top. It jumped from side to side, calling to the other sheep nearby. This launched a whole conversation with Yaay, her sister, a nearby woman and man for whom Yaay translated into Wolof, about Americans' problem with all things unpleasant – especially where our meat comes from. Eventually I also had to explain to Abdoullaye, who did not understand how someone who eats meat can't handle the animal where the meat comes from, getting killed. He said that he doesn't eat meat that he doesn't know where it came from, “It's cheaper to buy the animal itself. You get more meat for your money, and you know where the meat comes from...in the djibiteries, sometimes the meat comes from an animal who has been sick or hit by a car. This way I know this ram is healthy, and I know the meat will be good.” Although I was a bit confused, because Yaay had told me that the government has regulations and standards for food, as well as meat. How can the djibiteries sell bad meat like that, like from sick animals, if there are regulations? Maybe it's not as effective as the FDA in the States. I guess Abdoullaye has a point in this case; killing this ram was the safest way to eat meat.
I was trying to explain that in America, since we have so many regulations about meat being clean and sterilized – and also since meat has become industrialized, a businesses in every efficient, regulated sense – it is no longer permitted to buy an animal, bring it home, and slaughter it for your family. It may have been allowed in the past, when the majority of Americans were farmers...and this may still happen on farms where people have livestock. But if I, in the Chicago suburbs, were to bring home a sheep and slice its throat in our backyard...I'm pretty sure the neighbors would think I had lost my mind, and would most likely call the police.
I tried to describe “petting zoos,” where because Americans are so detached from the reality of what livestock is used for...the missing link from a cow to a hamburger doesn't exist...they pay to go into a park. This is a nostalgic mock representation of a farm, where the animals live there permanently and are never slaughtered for meat. It is a place where Americans can pretend they are connected to a more hands-on reality, pretend to understand that the hot dog they just had at the food court, comes from this pig they see before them in its pen. The truth of the matter is, however, that we understand nothing. The vast majority of Americans cannot conceptualize this fact; pigs and cows and sheep are cute animals that live on farms, and you can go see them for a small entrance fee. It is a very sterile, friendly, sugar-coated reality...and not at all the truth.
The unpleasant truth is that murder is the missing link. It is bloody and unpleasant, one that Americans have forgotten in our fake, created haven of plastic and sprinklers and supermarkets. When they asked me how we know what we're eating, I said, “Each packet of meat that we buy at the supermarket has a ticket/sticker on it, that says “Beef” “Chicken” “Pork.” This is as close as we come to what actually happened in a factory somewhere across the country, to an animal who has most of the time spent its life in a factory...or sold from a farm where the average consumer has never seen.
I asked if children cry here the first time they see an animal getting slaughtered, and they said sometimes. But most of the time they are so young the first time, they just take it in without judging it. It is a fact of life for children here. I asked if they keep children from seeing an animal getting killed at any point, as in, “You can see it for the first time when you're old enough to handle it,” but they said no. “As soon as they're born,” was the way they put it. They are told that God put animals on this earth for human consumption, so it's perfectly allowed. This explanation is somehow sufficient for children to understand. Roqueille and Pende told me that the pretty large hole in the front courtyard that I preferred not to think about, was indeed, filled with blood whenever they slaughter a goat/sheep. “There's a lot of blood during Tabaski,” they explained, which is a Muslim holiday which requires everyone to kill a goat.
I asked Abdoullaye and Yaay if they ever feel sorry for the animal. They shrugged, and tried to tell me that sheep and goats don't feel it when they're killed. I stared at them incredulously and said, “QUOI?? Bien sur ils le sentent!” (What? Of course they feel it). They shook their heads at me, and said that God wills it, so the animals like being slaughtered (Abdoullaye said this). It was the answer I was expecting, so I asked why the animals cry and act like they're distressed if they aren't really. Abdoullaye said that me thinking the animals are distressed and scared, is simply my human projection...that I really have no way of reading their emotions, and I don't know for sure. It's just what I think, because it's me that feels bad for them. I thought this was ridiculous; to me, it was more than obvious that the poor ram who was still pawing and prancing nervously in between grunts, suspected that something was about to happen to it.
I tried to explain that my parents are veterinarians, and so for my entire life, I've been taught to be nice to animals; to respect them, to be gentle when I touch them, to sympathize with them, to care for them, to keep them clean and satisfied...and that I've helped my parents care for sick animals. To prevent them from dying...and this has been my only experience with them. Animals as pets. Animals that live with people, animals that sleep with me on my bed, animals that come to me when I'm sad, animals that like to be touched and played with, animals that seem to have a soul, that seem to speak through their eyes. Animals that have seemed to be my friend....was it really just an illusion, a human projection? Was it really just because it was me that gave them food?
Is the right way to treat animals as what they are...potential sources of food? This ram wasn't an animal that was frightened and had thoughts, on some level...or even if this were the case, I shouldn't think about this fact or care about it. It was worth the amount we paid for it, and the amount of meat it would soon give. And if they aren't the same as domestic animals, what makes them different? What makes one worth our attention and respect, and the other worth the nutritional value it provides? In some places, including Africa, even cats are potential sources of food...as well as mangy strays, or pets.
I was mad at myself on some level...why was this such an easy concept for the people around me? Everyone laughed at my discomfort, which I laughed on the outside about as well. “Vous avez pitiee d'eux?” (Do you pity them?) They thought it was cute, like I was a child. “Why don't you go buy those goats?” They suggested when I asked about the young goats who were getting ready to be slaughtered. “Take the ram,” Yaay told me, laughing. “What would I do with a sheep?” I responded. “I'd soon have a farm, if I took every animal I felt sorry for.” Everyone thought this was funny.
“It's not normal, I admit it,” I said, angry with myself on the inside. “I'm an adult, I should be able to understand and accept reality...especially if I eat meat. My society is not normal. Reality is hidden, not spoken about, if it's unpleasant (this is true as well for issues of race, sexuality and obesity).” It shouldn't be this way...the way it is in Senegal, is normal.
Animals have lives...they are not kept in pens, they are not kept in factories. They roam free all the time, and are not even kept in a pen at night. They hang out together, mate with each other freely, care for their own babies who play like baby animals should, develop relationships with each other...behave as animals should. Their lives are not regulated like it is in the states...where it gets to an unnatural point. And when they're lives are finished, when they're old and can no longer mate/be productive...they're killed. It's truly a symbiotic relationship between humans and animals...we feed you and let you live normally, and then you feed us.
So why was I still having issues with this? Abdoullaye and Modou surrounded the ram, grabbed it and flipped it on its back in an instant. It struggled, and then gave up, laying its head on the ground. They tied its four legs together roughly so it couldn't move, and then hoisted it into the car, where it prompty pooped everywhere in the trunk. I came over and demanded they not let it sit in its own crap, to which they responded by chuckling, and then cleaning it up. I also said, “Il ne faut pas le faire mal....encore,” (Don't hurt it...yet), referring to the fact that its back end would probably be smacked by the trunk door when they closed it. They moved it in farther, and I made sure it was comfortable. Everyone thought this was really amusing, and I half exaggerated it to entertain them. But a part of me wondered if I should even be doing this, if I even should get this close, if I should pet it...it would make it that much harder in a few hours.
When they car started up and pulled away, the ram cried in the back seat for the next 20 minutes. Then when I looked back again, it had laid its head down on a bag of rice and dozed off. It slept until we got home. Then they roughly took it out, untied it's feet, and allowed Seydou and Ngone (who were really excited by the idea of having it for dinner), to drag it by its horn and its rope around the back of the house. I watched the ram waddle away stiffly, for it had been sitting in the same position for 2 hours straight. Ngone laughed and hit the ram with a stick she had found, to which I prompty got angry and took the stick away, “Deedeet,” I said. Roqueille couldn't understand what I was mad, and thought it was funny considering they were going to kill it anyway. “C'est ses derniers heures sur la Terre,” I said. (It's his last hours on this earth.) She laughed, and then told Ngone to stop hurting it.
When we went inside, I suddenly found that I had a terrible headache and felt sick. I laid down in my bed after having a late lunch (5:30) since we had been out all day, and didn't wake up again until the next morning. I woke up once at 9:00 to eat dinner...couscous, sauce, and a huge hunk of the ram. I had missed him getting slaughtered, although in my dreams I had heard some sort of screaming that sounded like a hawk getting attacked. Maybe it was the sound a sheep makes when it's throat is being slit. Who knows. I'm glad I missed it...although Abdoullaye told me that Laura – the last exchange student who had been here – asked if she could take pictures, and ended up filming the entire slaughter on her camera. I said that she must have had balls, basically, and that they shouldn't expect that from me. Sorry...I have a heart. As interesting as the process might be, I know what happens. I don't have to see it. If I saw it, I'd probably be a mess anyway, crying and blubbering...I might even vomit. I almost do so just thinking about it. So for those of you who are expecting some footage of the ram with its throat slit, kicking in protest, you will all be sadly disappointed.
But my God did it taste good. And hence my dilemma. Sigh.
When we had gone to Mame's house (the Grandmother with no nose), Mamy Samb(the girl who is my age) had asked if I would be coming back Saturday for her sister (?)'s 15th birthday party. I said of course I would, but it would depend on my family, etc, and what our plans were. I remembered that Yaay had said something about going to a neighboring village to talk about renewable resources, something something, but it turned out later that she was “too tired” and cancelled it. Imagining birthday cakes and candles, only in a cement, dingy Fatick house, I was excited. I thought the only major difference would be “Happy Birthday” sung in Wolof.
The next day I woke up at 10:00am, just because I heard kids screaming while they played, outside my window in the courtyard. I got up and walked out the door, to find cold fonde (porridge with lait caille) on the table...which had been waiting for me since 7:00am. After being teased by everyone in the house for “sleeping late” (on a Saturday...), I realized that the weekends are no exception to 5:00am prayer and breakfast by 7:00. No more partying until 5:00 in the morning and waking up at 11:30 like in Dakar...different family, different rules. Oh well.
I wrote in my blog, had lunch, then ataaya, and then I decided to go to the internet cafe. I posted some pictures and my blog, talked to Beka, and then met Modou (yes, I now know the 14 year old's name!...short for Mamadou)...and we walked together to Mame's house for the party. Hang on – the kids name's are:
Assan (the oldest – 18)
Modou (14)
Roqueille (I think that's how you spell it...at least the French way, 12)
Pende (girl “penday” 9)
Seydou (boy...the cousin who's parents lives in another town...he prefers to live with his cousins, since he's an only child...6)
Ngone (3)
Hadith (20 something?? the maid)
Ok so anyway, we started walking just as the sun was setting. After greeting everyone in the house, including Abdoullaye's youngest brother who is my age who is always in bed because he burned his legs in an accident. (His leg up to his knee is pinkish red..I can't figure out if that's how black skin looks when its badly burned, or if it's some sort of medicine he has to put on it). After looking at photos of him and his wife (who are my age) at their wedding....99% of which was his wife, all done up like a mannequin/prostitute with more makeup than I've ever seen in my life, fake-looking and white with drawn on purple eyebrows...I realized that the 2 year old son that they have was probably born before or shortly after the wedding – and probably had a lot to do with the wedding itself. People were holding the baby in the photo album not long after the wedding had taken place. Interesting.
We went out the back door to see a tent had been set up in the sand in between the houses, with a gigantic mat underneath. There were about 40 people sitting inside and standing around...this number greatly increased as the night went on. I sat in a chair that had been brought for me, even though I preferred to stand. Abdoullaye's other brother – older? - was sitting next to me dressed in full Senegalese Muslim gett-up, a sleek white boubou, a man's scarf, a Muslim head-cap, and fondling his chatelet (Muslim rosaries). He was very excited to talk to me and once he realized that I'm American, he started speaking broken English. I was really surprised and have no idea where he would have learned English, especially at his age...mid 40's. I know there are English classes in Fatick, but I'm not sure what would have provoked him to take them...except maybe his own personal interest. I like him a lot, although I forgot his name. He introduced himself as Gillay (I think), and was very nice, joking with me and making sure I was comfortable.
My family showed up after a while in style, the only people who drove up in a car. I'm starting to think the Sow's have some sort of elevated status in Fatick, but I'm not sure. They informed me that “il faut manger un peu”, meaning we would go home to have dinner and then return. I would learn later that unlike in the States, even if you miss a meal by more than 4 or 5 hours and it's fast approaching the next meal anyway, they still prefer to eat the meal....even if you're having “lunch” at 5:30 at night. So we all piled into the car and drove home. We ate ciep bu jen, I changed clothes (although I wish I would have had the sense to wear my Senegalese clothing again), and returned to the party.
By this time the tent was packed...girls sitting crammed together on one side, boys on the other, drummers in the back, and the marabou at the other end overseeing everything. I found Abdoullaye's brother again, who motioned for me to sit by him outside the tent...but just then, Mamy Samb came over and excitedly pulled me down the center isle, toward the Marabou. “Il faut saluer le marabou d'abord,” she said, and I had a fleeting thought that I was about to see the Marabou about converting to Islam...but of course this wasn't the case, although someone teased me later about it (it actually didn't occur to me that she was kidding at first). I took off my sandals first, and placed them on the sand, and followed Mamy Samb.
I was handed a white scarf to cover my hair, of course, and knelt down in front of the Marabou, who was a man in his late 30's, very tall, in a dark maroon choup boubou. He made me put my hands out in front of me, and repeat after him some pretty complicated phrases in Arabic. I had no idea what I was reciting, and the thought came again that I could be saying anything...”Allah is great, yes I want to be a Mauride Muslim like everyone here...Cheikh Amadou Bamba is the good path...” But I'm 99% sure I was simply reciting a blessing, as one would do at a church. When he was finished blessing me, I had to touch me hands to my forehead and then my heart.
After this, I stood up, towering over everyone who was seated before me on my right and left. I had a feeling – and I was right – that they wouldn't allow me to just discretely sit back down...I was now a spectacle, everyone had been watching me with the marabou. “Danse!! Feccal!” Mamy Samb said, smiling, breathless. So I did. The drums raced through me, and I started to move...everyone laughed and clapped, I knew I looked ridiculous. So I decided to turn up the ridiculousness by doing a horrible version of mbalax...I bent over slightly at the waist, put my arms out and moved them in time to the beat, while bouncing my bent knees in and out rhythmically. As soon as I did this, the crowd went wild...screaming and stomping their feet. Laughing as if to say, “Yea, I know that was silly...I'm a toubab, and I'm here for your enjoyment,” I followed Mamy Samb down the isle toward the girl's side, where we were crammed in among everyone else on the mat.
Then the party started...the marabou, along with some other people such as Abdoullaye's older brother, spoke in rapid Wolof about the faith, Islam, Cheikh Amadou Bamba, etc. etc...I didn't understand a word of it. Then the drums began again, and everyone took turns stepping out into the center isle and dancing for everyone...as I expected, as is customary in Senegal. I knew I would have to dance again. So I pulled Roqueille out into the middle with me, and her, Mamy Samb and I danced together for everyone. Abdoullaye's brother and Yaay caught my eye and gave me a thumb's up sign, and I laughed. I knew I wasn't that good, but it didn't seem to bother me...no one expected very much, and there were some other girls that danced that weren't that good either. Some of the men, however, were amazing...they jumped around and thrashed their body, all of it, around in time to the music in such a way that looked like they were doing some kind of sporting event...it was pretty impressive. I have it on video.
After a few hours, Nescafe was passed around in colorful plastic cups, which was welcomed...except that I was really hot from dancing, and hot coffee wasn't really what I would have preferred. It tasted like drinking syrup, since there was so much sugar inside...I suppose that's normal, everything must taste like ataaya. It was good.
At about 10:30, I started getting tired...I'm now used to going to bed early and getting up early. Everyone else was too, apparently, because Yaay came and motioned for all of us to get up and leave. We piled into the car and drove off home. There hadn't been any birthday cake, nor had the birthday girl really been celebrated, except for her dance sessions...but it was still something I'll never forget.
The next morning I woke up at 6:15 and was ready by quarter to 7:00 to go to the market...which was the time that Yaay had told me to be ready the night before. She had said, very sternly, that we were going to “quitter la maison” (leave the house) BEFORE 7:00. However, when I opened the door to my bedroom, which looks out into the foyer/dining room/living room area in the front of the house, I didn't see anyone. It was dead quiet and still sort of dark.
I looked outside, and still didn't see anyone. Maybe I had missed her? But the car was still parked in the courtyard, so I was really confused. Finally, at 7:01, I went into the second living room that we never use, and knocked on her bedroom door. Her door opened, and there was Yaay, all dressed and ready to go. She asked me if Abdoullaye was back from praying yet, and I said I hadn't seen him. Apparently he was coming too. The kids then woke up one by one, and went out to the hole to use the bathroom. Breakfast was served at 7:20, and we were still sitting around at 7:45. Ngone was sicker than usual, and was whining and whimpering on Yaay's lap. Then Abdoullaye came home and poured himself some local tea. I had some too, and he teased me about not using the entire powdered milk packet...which is a TON in it. It was the same powdered milk packets that I had bought and used at WARC, and none of us had ever used an entire packet at once. I was used to using just a spoonful. He used an entire packet, until his enormous cup of tea looked nearly white. I tried dumping the entire thing into my cup, which made the tea taste a lot different...less of a bite, and more smooth. I think I'll drink it the right way from now on.
The chauffer, Modou, then woke up, sleepy eyed and groggy ... apparently he had spent the night in order to be up at the right time to drive us. Yes, they have their own private sept-place and driver. We piled in the car together eventually, after 8:00, and left. The road was bumpy and full of potholes, and after about 45 minutes, we entered Kaolac. It looked like a slightly bigger version of Fatick, white cement stores and buildings everywhere, sandy roads, people milling about everywhere, goats, donkeys, etc. We stopped off at a house, and a woman in a bright pink, peach, flowery boubou (looked like a moo moo) got into the car. I knew immediately that it was Yaay's sister...same voice, same face, same gestures, only a slightly different nose...and her sister was a much larger woman. They got pretty enthusiastic in the car with each other, and the men in front were silent as a result. No one could get a word in edgewise...at one point as I was dozing off, Maga (?) let out a deafening, screeching laugh like a train squealing to a halt...and I was torn from my sleep.
We continued on through the dry landscape toward the center of Senegal, close to Mali. The sun became blisteringly hot. Then suddenly we were there, we saw large white buses which had come from Dakar, Pikine, etc, to transport people to the market. Apparently this was a huge deal. We descended from the car to see plenty of tents, people, animals being bought and sold and dragged around by ropes, fruits, vegetables, cooking wares, shoes, clothes, and restaurants...meaning some women cooking, with a few benches under a tent. I followed Yaay and her sister through the maze of tents, while Abdoullaye apparently preferred to go his own separate way. Modou stayed by the car. I felt bad for him later...buying some arachides (peanuts), mille (millet) and corn would take much longer than I would have ever anticipated.
As we walked through the 'isles', people passing by were worse, in regard to looking at me, than I have ever experienced. I assume white people in this market is a rare thing...I even got the impression it has never happened, but instinct tells me it must have. Young boys who were driving donkey carts turned all the way around to look at me, men shouted at me, people followed me, women carrying vegetables or peanuts or baggies of bissap juice came up to me and asked my name in Wolof – and when I actually answered them, screamed with delight and slapped me high five. Eventually Yaay or her sister had to tell them to leave us alone.
After searching for at least half an hour with everyone who was selling peanuts, Yaay began to complain that the price was too high. Apparently since it's almost Easter and close to l'hivernage, or the rainy season, all the last of the stock/harvest becomes ridiculously expensive. She was looking for 20 kilos of arachides, for 450 CFA a kilo. They were asking for 600-800 CFA.
As we were walking around, I saw a meat stand...a table where men were hacking fresh meat with machetes, and pieces of animal was dangling from the bar above. Two small goats, under a year old, a brownish and white one and a gray and white one, stood silently, tied together at their ankles, accepting their fate. Horrified, I asked Yaay if they were “les prochains d'etre tues??” (the next to be killed). She nonchalantly replied that they were. About an hour later we passed by the same meat stand, to see their skinned and roasted heads on the table, eyeballs bluish and staring, mouths open. They had been gutted and their meat was now hanging above them. My stomach turned and I had to look away.
Finally we found a stand off to the side, with a blanket laid out on the ground. Piles of corn, millet, and peanuts were on top. Yaay and her sister plunged their hand into the peanuts and turned over handfuls with their fingers, checking the quality. They decided the quality was good, and after haggling for a while, got the price they wanted for them. But it wasn't that simple.
I knew we'd be there a while when they all motioned for me to sit down. I sat down on the concrete step in the shade, while I watched Yaay and her sister haggle and discuss in rapid Wolof with the man there. I must admit...most people at the market, especially those selling agricultural products, were women, and I was surprised to see a man.
To be honest, however, for the 45 minutes we were sitting there behind his tarp on the cement step, I sort of blanked out...two months ago I would have been jittery and restless and seriously annoyed...but I guess I developed an extremely high tolerance and patience now. I have no idea what was taking so long...I suppose they were still contemplating if they wanted to give them the price. But my sitting there was an open opportunity for everyone passing by to come over and talk to me. This is fine, but tiring after a while. It always goes the same way, simple salutations, which delights everyone when I get it right. Then they move on to something really complicated, which I don't get, but they persist...just because I know how to say “I'm American, My name is Danielle, I don't want to buy anything,” doesn't mean I am fluent in Wolof. They don't seem to understand this...so it turns into a lot of laughing, smiling and “degguma”.
Finally the guy began to fill our sacs with peanuts...and I was made to count the cupfuls up till 50. Then we started to walk away, putting the bags on a donkey cart to bring to the car. Before that, I asked where I could buy some bissap or buiy...the sun was hot and I hadn't drank anything all day. Yaay's sister ended up buying me a plastic bottle of bissap from a girl, who was about 10 years old, who was selling them out of a small cooler for 50 CFA. I chugged it, and then after the three of us were finished, we returned the bottles to the girl. Everything gets recycled here, as far as bottles and glasses. Whenever we buy Coca Cola, which usually comes in a glass bottle, we have to pay a deposit and we get that money back if we return the bottle the next day or right after, which ever comes first.
We went back to the car, where we sat under a tree with some other people who were sitting as well. I assumed they were waiting for other people to come fill up the white buses back to other regions of Senegal, before they could leave. Most public transportation is like that here. After about 20 minutes of writing in her notebook, Yaay suddenly stood up, distressed, and demanded that we return to the peanut guy. She told me, after speaking in rapid Wolof to her sister, that she had accidentally paid double what she was supposed to. I followed her back into the market, cringing, knowing this was going to be an awkward – and probably prolonged – process to get her money back.
We weaved back through all the stands, back toward the man who sold the peanuts. We all were invited to sit back down on the cement step. For the next half an hour, Yaay discussed, and sometimes yelled, with the peanut guy. I heard “jafe jafe” and “ligeey” (problems/difficulties...work). I assumed the guy was trying to tell Yaay that work was hard for him, and basically trying to convince Yaay to just leave the extra money with him. She wouldn't hear of it, but she began by sympathizing with him, agreeing with him, “Degg la, Degg la, Degg la, Degg la” (It's true, It's true, etc, etc). The peanut man suddenly stood up and turned to me, crying out in French, “Si tu veux acheter un ane, tu ne peux pas vendre un ane!” (If you want to buy a donkey, you can't sell a donkey!) I assumed this meant, “You can't buy what you don't have/can't sell”...meaning he didn't want to sell the peanuts for less than he paid for them, he was saying he had to make a profit. It was a rhetorical question, to bring me into the conversation to gain external sympathy...But then Yaay pleaded her own case, telling him what the peanuts were for – I heard her explain in Wolof about Case Foyer and the women's group, the mutuelle, and how these peanuts were going to help women in micro credit projects. Eventually this softened him up, and we left. She explained to me that he successfully “reimbursed her”.
On the way back, we went into a small tent and sat down around a table. It was obviously a restaurant, and I got excited that we were going to eat. But a woman came in and after chatting with us, she cleaned up the table and no food came. I realized after a few minutes that we were there to buy 'l'huile d'arachide', peanut oil. It's supposedly really expensive, especially this stuff, which is made with the traditional method. She filled up two and a half 10-litre plastic jugs with an empty wine bottle, transferring the oil from a huge bucket to the jugs, which we carried back to the car. On the way, we haggled for another 15 minutes with a man for tomatoes.
When we returned, Modou helped us transfer the sacs off the cart and onto the ground next to the car. Since Abdoullaye wasn't back yet from whatever he was doing, we sat under the tree again with the other people. They asked Yaay questions about me, asking who I was, and unfortunately Yaay told them “Degg na Wolof” and I laughed and said “Tuuti rekk,” (“She understands Wolof,” “Only a little”). The man next to me took one of the plentiful colored plastic teapots and washed his feet and face, spitting out the water from his mouth through his teeth.
For the next hour and a half we sat under the tree, time creeping by, waiting for Abdoullaye. Yaay called him several times, and said he was just taking his time. She tried to tell him to wait for another week, because the prices were too high, but he wouldn't listen.
Finally, Abdoullaye approached in his black nylon track suit...a sight to see among all the traditional clothing. I asked him if he was hot, “Danga tang?” and obviously he was, he was wiping the sweat from his face, and said, “Yes, but I wear this to prevent the dust from getting on my skin.” He then wiped his finger on my arm, for I was wearing a tank top, to demonstrate his point; a ton of red dust came off on his finger.
Right behind Abdoullaye, Modou was dragging a large white ram. He had horns but they weren't so long. My heart skipped a beat as I watched this, for the last hour I had been listening to another young ram crying in distress who was tied to a car nearby, with less than a foot leeway. Now we would have one of our own to bring home. They tied the ram to the wheel of our car, where it was obviously upset. It cried in low grunts, lowering its neck to the ground whenever Modou jumped over it on top of the car to put the sacs of peanuts on top. It jumped from side to side, calling to the other sheep nearby. This launched a whole conversation with Yaay, her sister, a nearby woman and man for whom Yaay translated into Wolof, about Americans' problem with all things unpleasant – especially where our meat comes from. Eventually I also had to explain to Abdoullaye, who did not understand how someone who eats meat can't handle the animal where the meat comes from, getting killed. He said that he doesn't eat meat that he doesn't know where it came from, “It's cheaper to buy the animal itself. You get more meat for your money, and you know where the meat comes from...in the djibiteries, sometimes the meat comes from an animal who has been sick or hit by a car. This way I know this ram is healthy, and I know the meat will be good.” Although I was a bit confused, because Yaay had told me that the government has regulations and standards for food, as well as meat. How can the djibiteries sell bad meat like that, like from sick animals, if there are regulations? Maybe it's not as effective as the FDA in the States. I guess Abdoullaye has a point in this case; killing this ram was the safest way to eat meat.
I was trying to explain that in America, since we have so many regulations about meat being clean and sterilized – and also since meat has become industrialized, a businesses in every efficient, regulated sense – it is no longer permitted to buy an animal, bring it home, and slaughter it for your family. It may have been allowed in the past, when the majority of Americans were farmers...and this may still happen on farms where people have livestock. But if I, in the Chicago suburbs, were to bring home a sheep and slice its throat in our backyard...I'm pretty sure the neighbors would think I had lost my mind, and would most likely call the police.
I tried to describe “petting zoos,” where because Americans are so detached from the reality of what livestock is used for...the missing link from a cow to a hamburger doesn't exist...they pay to go into a park. This is a nostalgic mock representation of a farm, where the animals live there permanently and are never slaughtered for meat. It is a place where Americans can pretend they are connected to a more hands-on reality, pretend to understand that the hot dog they just had at the food court, comes from this pig they see before them in its pen. The truth of the matter is, however, that we understand nothing. The vast majority of Americans cannot conceptualize this fact; pigs and cows and sheep are cute animals that live on farms, and you can go see them for a small entrance fee. It is a very sterile, friendly, sugar-coated reality...and not at all the truth.
The unpleasant truth is that murder is the missing link. It is bloody and unpleasant, one that Americans have forgotten in our fake, created haven of plastic and sprinklers and supermarkets. When they asked me how we know what we're eating, I said, “Each packet of meat that we buy at the supermarket has a ticket/sticker on it, that says “Beef” “Chicken” “Pork.” This is as close as we come to what actually happened in a factory somewhere across the country, to an animal who has most of the time spent its life in a factory...or sold from a farm where the average consumer has never seen.
I asked if children cry here the first time they see an animal getting slaughtered, and they said sometimes. But most of the time they are so young the first time, they just take it in without judging it. It is a fact of life for children here. I asked if they keep children from seeing an animal getting killed at any point, as in, “You can see it for the first time when you're old enough to handle it,” but they said no. “As soon as they're born,” was the way they put it. They are told that God put animals on this earth for human consumption, so it's perfectly allowed. This explanation is somehow sufficient for children to understand. Roqueille and Pende told me that the pretty large hole in the front courtyard that I preferred not to think about, was indeed, filled with blood whenever they slaughter a goat/sheep. “There's a lot of blood during Tabaski,” they explained, which is a Muslim holiday which requires everyone to kill a goat.
I asked Abdoullaye and Yaay if they ever feel sorry for the animal. They shrugged, and tried to tell me that sheep and goats don't feel it when they're killed. I stared at them incredulously and said, “QUOI?? Bien sur ils le sentent!” (What? Of course they feel it). They shook their heads at me, and said that God wills it, so the animals like being slaughtered (Abdoullaye said this). It was the answer I was expecting, so I asked why the animals cry and act like they're distressed if they aren't really. Abdoullaye said that me thinking the animals are distressed and scared, is simply my human projection...that I really have no way of reading their emotions, and I don't know for sure. It's just what I think, because it's me that feels bad for them. I thought this was ridiculous; to me, it was more than obvious that the poor ram who was still pawing and prancing nervously in between grunts, suspected that something was about to happen to it.
I tried to explain that my parents are veterinarians, and so for my entire life, I've been taught to be nice to animals; to respect them, to be gentle when I touch them, to sympathize with them, to care for them, to keep them clean and satisfied...and that I've helped my parents care for sick animals. To prevent them from dying...and this has been my only experience with them. Animals as pets. Animals that live with people, animals that sleep with me on my bed, animals that come to me when I'm sad, animals that like to be touched and played with, animals that seem to have a soul, that seem to speak through their eyes. Animals that have seemed to be my friend....was it really just an illusion, a human projection? Was it really just because it was me that gave them food?
Is the right way to treat animals as what they are...potential sources of food? This ram wasn't an animal that was frightened and had thoughts, on some level...or even if this were the case, I shouldn't think about this fact or care about it. It was worth the amount we paid for it, and the amount of meat it would soon give. And if they aren't the same as domestic animals, what makes them different? What makes one worth our attention and respect, and the other worth the nutritional value it provides? In some places, including Africa, even cats are potential sources of food...as well as mangy strays, or pets.
I was mad at myself on some level...why was this such an easy concept for the people around me? Everyone laughed at my discomfort, which I laughed on the outside about as well. “Vous avez pitiee d'eux?” (Do you pity them?) They thought it was cute, like I was a child. “Why don't you go buy those goats?” They suggested when I asked about the young goats who were getting ready to be slaughtered. “Take the ram,” Yaay told me, laughing. “What would I do with a sheep?” I responded. “I'd soon have a farm, if I took every animal I felt sorry for.” Everyone thought this was funny.
“It's not normal, I admit it,” I said, angry with myself on the inside. “I'm an adult, I should be able to understand and accept reality...especially if I eat meat. My society is not normal. Reality is hidden, not spoken about, if it's unpleasant (this is true as well for issues of race, sexuality and obesity).” It shouldn't be this way...the way it is in Senegal, is normal.
Animals have lives...they are not kept in pens, they are not kept in factories. They roam free all the time, and are not even kept in a pen at night. They hang out together, mate with each other freely, care for their own babies who play like baby animals should, develop relationships with each other...behave as animals should. Their lives are not regulated like it is in the states...where it gets to an unnatural point. And when they're lives are finished, when they're old and can no longer mate/be productive...they're killed. It's truly a symbiotic relationship between humans and animals...we feed you and let you live normally, and then you feed us.
So why was I still having issues with this? Abdoullaye and Modou surrounded the ram, grabbed it and flipped it on its back in an instant. It struggled, and then gave up, laying its head on the ground. They tied its four legs together roughly so it couldn't move, and then hoisted it into the car, where it prompty pooped everywhere in the trunk. I came over and demanded they not let it sit in its own crap, to which they responded by chuckling, and then cleaning it up. I also said, “Il ne faut pas le faire mal....encore,” (Don't hurt it...yet), referring to the fact that its back end would probably be smacked by the trunk door when they closed it. They moved it in farther, and I made sure it was comfortable. Everyone thought this was really amusing, and I half exaggerated it to entertain them. But a part of me wondered if I should even be doing this, if I even should get this close, if I should pet it...it would make it that much harder in a few hours.
When they car started up and pulled away, the ram cried in the back seat for the next 20 minutes. Then when I looked back again, it had laid its head down on a bag of rice and dozed off. It slept until we got home. Then they roughly took it out, untied it's feet, and allowed Seydou and Ngone (who were really excited by the idea of having it for dinner), to drag it by its horn and its rope around the back of the house. I watched the ram waddle away stiffly, for it had been sitting in the same position for 2 hours straight. Ngone laughed and hit the ram with a stick she had found, to which I prompty got angry and took the stick away, “Deedeet,” I said. Roqueille couldn't understand what I was mad, and thought it was funny considering they were going to kill it anyway. “C'est ses derniers heures sur la Terre,” I said. (It's his last hours on this earth.) She laughed, and then told Ngone to stop hurting it.
When we went inside, I suddenly found that I had a terrible headache and felt sick. I laid down in my bed after having a late lunch (5:30) since we had been out all day, and didn't wake up again until the next morning. I woke up once at 9:00 to eat dinner...couscous, sauce, and a huge hunk of the ram. I had missed him getting slaughtered, although in my dreams I had heard some sort of screaming that sounded like a hawk getting attacked. Maybe it was the sound a sheep makes when it's throat is being slit. Who knows. I'm glad I missed it...although Abdoullaye told me that Laura – the last exchange student who had been here – asked if she could take pictures, and ended up filming the entire slaughter on her camera. I said that she must have had balls, basically, and that they shouldn't expect that from me. Sorry...I have a heart. As interesting as the process might be, I know what happens. I don't have to see it. If I saw it, I'd probably be a mess anyway, crying and blubbering...I might even vomit. I almost do so just thinking about it. So for those of you who are expecting some footage of the ram with its throat slit, kicking in protest, you will all be sadly disappointed.
But my God did it taste good. And hence my dilemma. Sigh.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
More Fatick news
27/03/2009
Ok so I'm going to organize my experiences by topics...because this is how I will want to remember things. Also, I think it's easier to read.
It's Freaking Hot
Hot isn't even the word to describe it here. When we were watching the weather on the television, it didn't sink in when my host dad Abdoulaye said, “38 degres!” I still don’t TRULY understand Celsius...just that it's hot. Then I talked to Henry (the French/American), who converted this in his head for me.....101 degrees F. Yes...Fatick is hot. This is exactly what everyone in Dakar kept telling me, and I sort of kept shrugging it off like it was no big deal. It's so hot that I can't really go out during the day, even if I wanted to...and the power has gone off twice this week already at work, stopping the fans...good things all the buildings are made out of cement, so it's not AS hot as it could be. I miss going outside and wandering around, meeting people...no one is outside until like 6:00pm or later.
Teranga=sometimes annoying
Not sure if I mentioned what “teranga” means yet or not, but it means “hospitality” for lack of a better English translation. We just don't have this concept in Western cultures. I will explain to what extent I meant hospitality.
Senegal is known, by its own designation, as the “pays of teranga” (country of hospitality). However, up until this point, I have not truly experienced this in Dakar to the extent some of the other MSID students already have. My family in Dakar was much more laid back, didn't ask questions, didn't mind when I wanted time alone in my room during the day. If I was going out later than they would be asleep, they would just make sure I had my key. I already mentioned, however, how people would come and go in the house seemingly at will...and when I verified, they truly had not called before hand. People would come in unannounced and sit down to dinner with us. This was completely normal. Leontine would just get a bit upset it we didn't tell her ahead of time if we were planning on missing a meal. The amount of French visitors we had was amazing...six French people came in the middle of the night last Friday and left the next day with Papa for Casamance...and we moved people around in the house to make room for them all. Then two more the day before Melanie and I left. Strange...
I have definitely been exposed to this concept more so than ever before with my new family in Fatick. Like I've already mentioned, they snuck one of the oranges that I had bought for THEM, into my room. Another thing, which is actually really nice of my host mom, I woke up and opened the door my first morning here, and found a pair of sandals that weren't mine, in front of my door next to my own. I wasn't sure who's they were, but they were clearly laid out for me. When I asked about them later, my host mom replied that they were her sandals, and that they were so I could wear them to the shower. It's really nice...but now I don't know if I'm supposed to buy my own and give them back to her...and I'm not sure how she assumed I didn't have any of my own to begin with.
Another source of “hospitality”, which has been driving me nuts, is the maid. The first time I came home from work, I found my room strangely...empty. Now we had a maid in Dakar, who came in maybe once every week or two to sweep and clean the bathroom. But she always used to put everything back exactly where she found it. This maid seems to think she has to “arrange” my room, put everything in a new spot than where I originally put it. This is again, very “nice” of her...but I was irritated when I couldn't find anything I had put somewhere. All my dirty and clean clothes had been folded and piled together, and I couldn't find my towel or pajamas. I found them out on the line...they had been washed. Also, as I am trying to conserve trash bags for myself for obvious reasons, she had taken the trash bag that was still nearly empty that I had just started (with some tissues inside), and had taken it upon herself to throw it out for me. My sheet that my host mom had given me as a blanket was also gone. It was again, all very nice...but I was irritated none the less. I told my host mom that it was no problem at all for me to do my own laundry and I could clean my room myself, and she seemed relieved and said she would “give the order to the maid,” and that if I ever needed something cleaned, to let her know...otherwise the maid wouldn't go in my room.
The next day, the same thing happened. No sheets, towel, or pajamas, and more searching frantically to find things I had put in a certain place. RRR.
Also, up until yesterday, I hadn't said anything about the fact that my bedroom door doesn't close. This made me nervous at night, to have nothing but a curtain separating me from the outside world. Also, knowing Seydou – who is a cousin, not a “real” doom (biological child), and therefore is a huge troublemaker and 'asks to be hit,' as one of the other kids said when I asked why they had to hit Seydou – who constantly goes into my room and tries to 'take my money' and my 'camera' and all things fragile, I asked his parents if there was a way I could close my door. I said I was afraid the children would go into my room and take my things. This seemed to be the least insulting way I could put it. I didn't expect this, but THAT NIGHT, I come home to find a neighbor, who was also a handyman, taking a look at my bedroom door and fixing a new door handle/lock/key on it. It was pretty nice.
I was also given my own cup at breakfast, which was definitely what they considered to be appropriate for Westerners...it was the same ridiculously small type of teacup I had seen in France. It was basically big enough for an espresso-sized shot of tea. I felt like saying, “I'm American...don't you know we like everything big?? I'm not French!” So I just took it upon myself to nonchalantly take a different mug, which was bigger. They had also bought cheese especially for me, even when no one else in the family eats it. I said I prefer butter or chocolate – two of the items already on the table.
They also crack up during lunch and dinner when I cut up the items in the middle and distribute it to everyone's section of the bowl....as is polite, what you're supposed to do. I did this in Dakar, and the first couple times were met with chuckles and grins. But after that, they didn't say anything. Today, I was told by the 12 year old girl that “Danielle - c'est nous qui doivent le faire,” (It's us who have to do it), in an almost patronizing way, “C'est toi l'etrangere.” (You're the stranger/visitor from abroad). I said in French, “It's something the family does, right? I'm part of the family, right?” I also happened to be wearing my Senegalese outfit (because it's Friday), and I said, “Did you not notice that I'm not an “etrangere,” I'm Senegalese!” Everyone laughed, and Mama Sow gave me a high five. Everyone seemed to enjoy that, and the matter was dropped.
Also, EVERY time I finish eating, which is always more than the other women have eaten, and I put my spoon down and try to get up – everyone said, “Danielle, tu ne manges plus?” (You're not eating anymore?) “Danielle, il n'etait pas bon?” (It wasn't good?) “Tu n'as pas bien mange” (You didn't eat well/enough). Of course I have to say, “Non, neex na torop, surr na, lekk naa torop, jeureujeuf” (No, it was too delicious, I'm full, I had too much, thank you). It's like please, obviously, I've had enough and I enjoyed it...just once, let me get up in peace and be on my way. They don't say this to anyone else in the family. Just one of these days, I want to be like, “No? You're right, I DIDN'T eat enough.” And then sit back down, and eat everyone else's food. Maybe then they wouldn't be so quick to encourage me to eat more.
Food=delicious...it's inevitable that I will gain back all the weight I lost here
Speaking of food...it's delicious. I don't want to play favorites, but this food is definitely better than the food I had with my family in Dakar. It's flavorful, the quality of the items used is good, and it's just really good. Aside from the fact that the women don't eat anything and I feel like a huge pig compared to them, and the fact that the other day there were TWELVE people eating around the same bowl (the laundress and her baby, the six kids, the maid, me, and the parents), it is ridiculously good. We had both kids of ciep bu jen already, and some other dishes I've never had before. One had this curry-tasting green sauce with white potatoes, onions, and beef, which you pick up with bread. I didn't know this at first, and used up all of my bread in the first five minutes...and of course everyone around me reached for more bread the second I put the last piece in my mouth.
Of course we had couscous, which is a typically non-Dakar thing to eat. This is not the typical North African/Middle Eastern couscous we all know and love that comes in a box in the States...this is millet couscous. It's not fluffy, its thick and heavy and paste-like...and when you thought you haven't eaten that much, ten minutes later it “gonffle” in your stomach (expands), and you feel like you've eaten a cow. We have that with this peanuty-onion sauce that you spread over it and mix.
They also made this one dish with millet that is a Catholic dish, that is only made on Good Friday. It has:
Peanut powder/oil
Millet
Buiy juice (juice from baobab fruits)
Water
Sugar
Bananas
Oranges
It's delicious...you eat it in a cup with a spoon.
I think I need to somehow find a way to cut back on the amount I eat though, regardless of their pleading. With this lack of exercise because of the heat, added to how much I've been eating, I don't want to come home looking like a blimp...well...like most of the women here.
What I find funny is what my host dad said this morning at breakfast. I heard toubab, and “grossir” in the midst of their conversation, and asked him what he was talking about. He said “Normally, the white skins (white people) who come here don't eat nearly enough...they don't eat what's necessarily to gain wait.” He said this with a completely straight face. I said, “Well...of course not...Americans don't like to get fat.” I immediately regretted saying this, because my host mom has obviously seen no reason not to become obese. I said, “Well...there are different standards of beauty in the United States.” And that's where it stopped, because a neighbor came in. Saved by the bell....oh wait, there isn't one.
Kids are Cute...but they're also Good Birth Control
Ngone has been sick ever since I arrived here. Unlike young children in the United States, who when seen sneezing or coughing, are told to cover their mouths, in Senegal one person's sickness is everyone's potential sickness. They don't even try. Occasionally they'll wipe her nose clean of snot, but this is as far as it goes. They share cups of water, and I've seen her boogers float into the water, and then she passes it to the next person. Thank God I have my own private filtered water in my room. Every time we sit down to eat, she insists on sitting in front of me. She steals food with her germy spoon from my section, coughs and sneezes directly into the food that everyone shares. This makes me cringe and feel sick to my stomach, but no one says anything. When I had my computer out today, she touched the screen with boogery hands, and then sneezed all over the screen. This is the last time I'm bringing it out into the common area. Seydou then thinks it’s a game, and starts to touch the monitor when I'm not looking. Assan licked off my spoon the other day when it fell into the bowl of food, and gave it back to me. Today Ngone got up and puked on the chair next to the food during lunch. I almost hurled, myself.
Everyone goes to bed early. Also, Muslims don't drink alcohol, and don't think highly of girls drinking or going out in general...so no going to bars I assume. This is so different from Dakar.
I wish I had someone my own age. I'm just going to say that off the bat. I'm used to not having children around...and while this is a great experience, and I'm actually learning a lot of Wolof with them, I miss having someone I can relate to and hang out with. When I mentioned this in passing last night around 10:15 to my host parents, after most of the kids except Ngone were in bed, they mumbled something in Wolof, and said, “Nungi dem, kaay.” (We're going, come on). I said, “What? Where are we going?” “To meet our family in Fatick,” they replied, “They don't live far. And they have some people your age.” “Um...ok, but it's late! We can go tomorrow, this isn't urgent!” “No no, we'll go now.”
So off we went, Ngone, Yaay and Papa Sow, and me, in the old family car. We drove off through the sand, avoiding cows and donkeys, through the main road of Fatick, and then off on a side street...until we arrived at a house. Of course it was one story and cement, and as we descended from the car, a woman with no nose came out of the house to greet us. It was Abdoullaye's mother. I'm not sure how I can describe a person with no nose, but it just looked like something was missing...and clearly it was. Just teeth and eyes, in a black face...it was dark out too, and she had on a beautiful white boubou. I shook her hand, and she seemed clearly happy to see me, although it was hard to tell. We followed her into the house where a man was seated doing his prayer beads (like rosary, but for Muslims), and stopped to say hello to me. Of course they all got a kick out of me speaking basic salutatory phrases in Wolof. There was Abdoullaye's sister, brother and his wife, and his other brother and his wife, along with some other random people. We went into a random bedroom where some people were watching tv...there were a bunch of men in the room listening to a woman speak. Although I can't tell you the exact words in Wolof, I understood the gist – this woman was a major feminist, and said “Can you imagine a Senegal where woman have a hand in politics?” She was saying that it's time women are taken seriously, and that they need to be “alphabetized” so they can contribute to society. She said it isn't a real democracy until “jigeens” have a clear voice in government. She said a whole lot more, but that's what I got out of it.
Ngone was tired by this point and sat on my lap, after coming back into the room with sorbet in plastic baggies, that someone in the house had given her. They were good, but hard to open. Water comes in these little baggies too, and you have to bit open the corner to eat it. A girl in a towel poked her head in, and my host parents announced that this was “the girl who was my age,” who had been designated to hang out with me one of these days. The man and woman who were married, sitting next to me, were also supposedly my age. But they didn't suggest I hang out with a married couple...wonder why...We then said goodbye, “ba baneen yoon,” and left.
In addition, I have not been able to go out on my own. I'm not sure whether it's because I'm American (and my two months in Dakar are essentially meaningless here, they assume I've started from square one) and don't know anything, or because I'm a girl, or because they're the parents of extremely small children or what – or a combination of all three – but when I suggested I go out for a walk the other night (after asking if it was “safe” to do so, and they said yes)...they made me take some of their money, and three of the kids, to go to a boutique and get Coca Cola. I think they just didn't understand the idea of walking without a purpose, and were bothered by the idea of me doing it alone, at any rate. I also suggested, after the third time at the Cyber Cafe, that I go alone. Mama Sow wouldn't hear of it...she freaked out, laughed, and said I would go with the boys at 4:00 when they went back to school. (From 1:00pm – 4:00pm kids have a break for lunch here...then they go until 6:00pm). I said, “But I know the way, it's not necessary.” But she definitely put her foot down and wouldn't hear otherwise. It's about a 10 minute walk. She finally compromised and said “maybe” after this week, she'll consider me going places alone. We'll see. It's a bit frustrating.
Boobs, boobs and more...boobs
So it started out with the “cassiere” at work, Binda Deme. I noticed it with her too, but today I realized that most women that come in are like this. They either don't wear a bra under their extremely transparent African clothes, or their bra falls down to expose breast and they don't care to fix it. Nipple and everything...old women too. This one woman adjusted her shirt at the window today (not really a window...but the bars), and her two breasts were obviously exposed to the world for about two minutes.
Later that first day, Yaay decided her breasts needed some air. We were sitting around, the tv playing music, all 6 kids and myself. She took off her top, and laid there with her breasts out. Just right there...for all the world to see. Even her 18 year old son....I tried not to look or make a face.
This same day, a neighbor woman came in to say hello to Yaay. She was excited and loud and energetic. She rushed over when she saw me and barraged me with the usual salutations in Wolof, and then grabbed my face...she kissed one cheek, then the other, then my mouth. I thought the worst was over. But as if I didn't feel violated enough, after asking how “I was going,” she took her finger and stabbed at my crotch with it...luckily she missed important parts, asking “And how is THIS doing?!!” She screamed, laughing at the top of her lungs, as if she had made the funniest joke known to man. I was so shell shocked, that I just laughed and said, “bu baax/baax na” (It's good). Needless to say, I felt really confused....my host dad had been standing right there, and didn't even notice or care. Apparently this is a totally normal way to tease another woman. I haven't even addressed this issue, and probably won't. It's just something to be aware of in the future, I suppose.
Everything I do is a spectacle
I have lost pretty much all my privacy. I've tried to read/listen to music/write in my blog out in the common area, just to be around the family, but this doesn't work. I immediately become the center of attention, which is really annoying when these are the activities I used to do to de-stress and be alone. What I'm writing/reading/listening to become the most important thing for everyone in the room. “Oh look, Danielle's drawing!” “Oh look, Danielle's reading a book in English!” “What is this, an I pod?” Touchy touchy touchy, gimme gimme gimme...and me saying “Fragile la,” or “Xaraal” or “Deedet,” it works for about 10 seconds...but just like when I used to babysit in the States, kids forget after a while and go right back to doing the same thing. It's so tiring...and it's only been a week.
Every time I'm doing anything, the kids and parents come around to watch. This makes it especially hard when I'm writing in my blog, because I don't want to do this in my room...this would make me seem unsociable. Luckily they don't understand English, which is good...especially the part I just wrote about Ngone being sick, or the boob touching.
And it's not just the family that gives me special attention 24/7. I might get a prolonged glance here and there in Dakar, but in Fatick – I might be the only toubab in the entire city, and have been the only one in months. Apparently some Canadians came to the kids' school the other day, but that was it. Therefore, a person with “peau blanche” is a HUGE deal. It's like a parade when I walk on the main street with my host siblings, people turn around on bikes, kids scream “TOUBAB!! TOUBAB!” like little birds, and chase us down the sidewalk. Men stare from across the road, and dare to say, “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” Aiyaya......what is so interesting??? I mean I get it, but I don't. I don't like it, is what I mean to say. I know I don't deserve all this attention, and I hardly know how to handle it...except smile and wave like Miss America. That's pretty much what I am here.
Fear of the Hole in the Ground
door doesn't close...gross...3 year old isn't all the way potty trained yet...unpleasant. That's all I need to say. I try to use the toilet at work for other business, because it actually flushes. But like most of the real toilets here, the seat doesn't attach...and I almost fell in once because the seat slid out from under me when I sat down. Haha:)
Internship = harder than I thought...language barrier
I need to speak with Yaay one of these days...I'm having a rough time at work. I understand most of what is said to me, but unfortunately this isn't enough to understand complex financial procedures. It's basically like a mini bank...transactions are recorded, stored, and analyzed at a quick pace, with women waiting in line. I still don't understand the procedures; I simply do what Binta tells me without understanding WHY I'm doing it. I've asked her questions before, like “How do you know that it's a depot (deposit) and when it's a rembursement (reimbursement), with interet (interet), etc?” Binta did not react the way I expected, and the other women that were standing at the window started laughing. She did too, and feigned insult, “Why, I know!” She exclaimed, as if I had been challenging her competence. I tried to explain that it was important for me to understand how she knew, so I didn't have to keep bothering her. The situation was already over, though. Now I'm afraid to ask questions. Sometimes I have to write the full amount of what the particular woman is giving the mutuelle as a reimbursement, or sometimes Binta has me write part of it as that and part of it as a depot, etc. I try to figure out the pattern, but I really have no idea at all. And it doesn't help that I've already had to look up 30 vocabulary words in French that have to do with finance and banking, at the cyber cafe. That helped a bit, but each French word has a Wolof counterpart that is used more often – the only time anyone speaks French is when they're talking to me, when I'm talking to them, or when they're saying numbers. Numbers are almost always in French.
That's another thing that's been hard...numbers. She'll hand me the booklet where I fill out the woman's group number, how much she's depositing, the date, etc, and make carbon copies...and Binta will count the “billetage” (bills), and tell me in supersonic speed what the number is. This sounds easy, and of course numbers were the first thing I learned in French. But it's not that simple. “Huit cent quatre-vingt douze mille deux cent soixante dix.” Reading it spelled out is one thing...but when a woman yells it to you super fast from the other side of the room, it takes me a minute to figure out what she just said. Also, when I read numbers that Binta already wrote, it screws me up all the time as well. The way the French “2” is written, is not at all how we write it. We write it like you see here, on the computer...go figure; Americans configured most computer typing systems. French “2”'s look more like a backward “P”, only more loopy. It looks so bizarre, especially when she's writing fast. It genuinely looks like a 9. So I kept copying numbers down as 900, etc, when it was really 200. What was even more frustrating is that we went through the whole explanation, and laughed about it...and I STILL kept screwing it up a few times. It's better now, but she wasn't very understanding about it. I wouldn't expect her to be, these numbers are kind of important. But she was acting as if she was taking it personally, as if I was criticizing her handwriting or something.
I've spent my time the past two days in the back room on the one computer, typing up an Annual Mutuelle Report for 2008. It was all handwritten....which was a joy, because Madame Sow's handwriting isn't much better. It took a lot of logic and context clues to figure out what she could have meant in French...which was actually good language practice for me. It also helped me learn a bit of official French jargon...and a lot of new vocab. But it was frustrating as hell.
I've learned that I really don't like French people
It's not just the French. Americans have their unbearable qualities too that I won't bother going into at the moment. It's just worth mentioning that the Americans are not BY FAR off the hook, just because I've – surprise – decided to rag on the French for once in my life.
Maybe it's the particular French people who have felt inclined to make the journey here to Senegal. But overall, they're either tourists who think that Senegal still belongs to France – and is basically an amusement park (I always hear, “Je suis en vacances!”...meaning they think they can do whatever they want) - or they're like the students I met yesterday.
I was told that we had a meeting at work with PDF (Promotion pour le Developpement des Femmes), but I wasn't told that we'd be meeting with students from France who are younger than me. They apparently are here for 10 days on an “internship.”...although I'm not sure how effective an internship is if it's only for 10 days, but anyway. There are supposedly quite a large number of them here, but during 10 days, they split up and interview women's organizations in the area that benefit from PDF subsidization (it's a Belgian NGO). I suppose part of the reason I got a negative vibe from these students right off the bat is because I have started to adopt somewhat of a Senegalese mentality...I expect chatting, warmth, genuine interest, and lots of sincere smiling before I get “down to business.” I expect people to be sincere. I guess I just didn't get that from these French girls at all...and now that I think about it, if they had been American, I would have gotten the same vibe. In fact, if I had been in these girl's position two months ago, I probably would have conducted the interview and behaved in the same, detached, plastic-smile, fake, polite manner that they were.
I happened to be wearing my Senegalese outfit that day, because it was Friday yesterday – and that's like a tradition here, kind of like casual Fridays in the States. They looked me up and down and it was obvious they were judging me because of this because they assumed I always dress like this...I don't know, I got a negative vibe.
They had a piece of paper that they used to ask questions, and didn't bother first asking Madame Sow or Binta how they were, etc – or thanking them for giving them the interview. They said this afterward, but it made the beginning of the meeting awkward. Every time they asked a question and Madame Sow answered, they said in an overwhelmingly patronizing tone of voice, “Oh, ok!!” As if they were talking to a 4 year old. Also, as I've learned to accept and even expect from the Senegalese, when you ask a question, they will take an INORDINATELY long time answering. This is partly because they are giving themselves more time to organize their thoughts clearly...but also, they enjoy being long winded. Being direct, short, and to the point is seen as lack of caring and disinterest. When Madame Sow proceeded to answer their questions in this manner, I saw them (right in front of her), look at each other and make a face like...oh my god....
I know she saw this look, and I found it extremely rude...even though in the back of my mind I understood their frustration. Also, when I attempted to explain something quickly to them because Madame Sow hadn't understood the question, they seemed to get defensive even with me. “Oui, carrement, on le comprend,” (Yes, obviously, we understand that). It is definitely a Western mentality; to take it personally if someone assumes you need more of an explanation than you think you do. It means you aren't competent, or are too dumb to figure it out on your own, or that it insults your independence. In Senegal, I've come to understand that “insulting your intelligence,” simply means that the person cares enough to drive the point home...to over-explain, to make sure you understand. It's “helping”, not insulting.
To make matters worse, I went to ask a question in French. The girls asked what happens when a woman in the group doesn't pay back her credit. After Madame Sow answered the question, I added, “Mais ca se passe pas tres frequemment, oui?” (That doesn't happen very often, right?) And once those words came out of my mouth....in my newly acquired Senegalese, half-remaining Parisen, sort of American accent...and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the girls look at each other and start giggling. I shot them a glance, feeling hot under the collar, and they avoided my stare. I looked at Binta, who had seen everything, and she laughed with me sympathetically. Her eyes seemed to say the same thing mine were...Those damn French...but don't worry about it. I said in French, making it loud enough for the girls to hear, “People laugh when I speak Wolof, people laugh when I speak French, I'm used to it by now.” Binta laughed with me, and slapped me high five, as if to say, I know how you feel and I admire you for making a joke out of it.
Madame Sow went to explain the structure of the mutuelle, and the girls were having a hard time understanding it. So she asked me to draw a flow chart, since she knows I can draw. I took out a piece of paper and started to draw what she was explaining, while I heard the French girls snickering over there in a 'I can't believe this' tone of voice...then one of them made a big show about getting up, snatching up the paper from me, and quickly completing the flowchart, then slapping it down on the desk in front of Madame Sow with a triumphant smile as if to say, 'See? We get it. Let's not waste time, stop insulting our intelligence.' It was very rude...and after the interview, Madame Sow and Binta started talking about this as well with laughter.
Later that day, around 6:00pm at home, Madame Sow said that more students from PDF were coming to talk to her women's group. She is the president of the mutuelle where I work, as well as the President of the women's group in our neighborhood (Daroum Salaam), as well as the coordinator for an alphabetization class. I have much admiration for this women...especially coming out and seeing the 8 officials from the mutuelle, which she started, who looked at her with admiration whenever she said anything. Then two more French girls came in and a French boy, who looked very uncomfortable. We went around the room and introduced ourselves, and they went on and on and on. They looked really confused when one of the women got off her chair and lay on the floor, stretching out lazily, putting her head in the lap of the woman next to her. This made me laugh inside my head, because this sort of thing is no longer strange to me, especially when one woman began nonchalantly scratching her breast. It was amusing because I am now habituated by this, but I remember being the same way as them...astounded by how different our ideals of 'professionalism' are, when it's appropriate to do certain things. People are much less impressed by the same 'higher than human' attitude people have during 'important, professional meetings.' They prefer to sit on the floor with their shoes off, and laugh, and converse, and go off topic once in a while and enjoy each other's company. The French people, and Americans too, prefer to sit straight-backed in the chair, smile too much, and act generally cold. A perfect example of this cross-cultural clashing, was when, in the middle of one of the French girl's well-thought out, carefully-articulated questions, one of the Senegalese woman interrupted her by saying, “I'm thirsty!! Does anyone want a drink?” The girl snapped her mouth closed in surprise, eyes wide, and forced a smile. Madame Sow said, “Do you want a drink? Our group has money.” They weren't sure how to answer this question, as they knew very well that the group didn't have a ton of money to spare, since that was the topic of discussion. They just changed the subject. When they asked Madame Sow if she had any questions after they were finished with the interview, she said with a cackle, “Do you have any money?” I started cracking up, as I knew this was a joke...but the French students laughed uncomfortably and were clearly 'mal a l'aise.'
l “Did you write your rules and regulations YOURSELVES?” They were surprised that the answer was yes.
l “Is the alphabetization class (which simply means teaching women how to read and write), for children too?” Of course the answer is just for the women who are part of the micro credit group. This question implied that the French girl did not know what kind of education standards there are in Senegal...she was implying also, that children here might not go to school/know how to read and write either. The reality of the situation, however, is that these women who are part of the group don't know how to read or write because the generation of women from which they come, which grew up during the 60's and 70's, education was much different. Women didn't have access to education, so the generation of women that are in these groups generally can't read or write. By contrast, the children of my generation from the 80's, and children presently are educated equally between the two sexes.
l “Do you know this woman well? Is she a friend of yours?” With a patronizing smile, when asking about a certain woman who did something in particular with PDF, in the middle of her story.
l I heard off to the side, between the French students, if they should call the van to come pick them up...as it had left. Someone said I don't think my telephone works...maybe we can use one in town. The girl said with a laugh, “Telephones? In Fatick?” As if this was an impossible idea. I was going to tell her that my host dad has a $200 (U.S.) international cell phone that is probably the nicest I've ever seen. I also wanted to tell her that my host brothers have a computer in their room where they play basketball video games.
Aside from the French people, there is really not much else to say. I suppose its worth mentioning that two weeks ago, a 45 year old Marabou (Islamic spiritual leader) raped our 19 year old neighbor. The apparently also often do this sort of abuse to their Talibes, the young boys who study the Koran under their care. Unfortunately, it isn’t only the Catholic priests that do this sort of thing. Sad.
Also worth mentioning that I talked to my host sisters today and they told me that the girls in their school won regionally for math; spelling; and science. They said the boys are never in the top ten for these subjects. She said they always do well in art…and that the girls think doing art is a waste of time. I told her it was strange…This is opposite in the U.S. Funny how much perceived gender roles affect how well we do in school.
Ok so I'm going to organize my experiences by topics...because this is how I will want to remember things. Also, I think it's easier to read.
It's Freaking Hot
Hot isn't even the word to describe it here. When we were watching the weather on the television, it didn't sink in when my host dad Abdoulaye said, “38 degres!” I still don’t TRULY understand Celsius...just that it's hot. Then I talked to Henry (the French/American), who converted this in his head for me.....101 degrees F. Yes...Fatick is hot. This is exactly what everyone in Dakar kept telling me, and I sort of kept shrugging it off like it was no big deal. It's so hot that I can't really go out during the day, even if I wanted to...and the power has gone off twice this week already at work, stopping the fans...good things all the buildings are made out of cement, so it's not AS hot as it could be. I miss going outside and wandering around, meeting people...no one is outside until like 6:00pm or later.
Teranga=sometimes annoying
Not sure if I mentioned what “teranga” means yet or not, but it means “hospitality” for lack of a better English translation. We just don't have this concept in Western cultures. I will explain to what extent I meant hospitality.
Senegal is known, by its own designation, as the “pays of teranga” (country of hospitality). However, up until this point, I have not truly experienced this in Dakar to the extent some of the other MSID students already have. My family in Dakar was much more laid back, didn't ask questions, didn't mind when I wanted time alone in my room during the day. If I was going out later than they would be asleep, they would just make sure I had my key. I already mentioned, however, how people would come and go in the house seemingly at will...and when I verified, they truly had not called before hand. People would come in unannounced and sit down to dinner with us. This was completely normal. Leontine would just get a bit upset it we didn't tell her ahead of time if we were planning on missing a meal. The amount of French visitors we had was amazing...six French people came in the middle of the night last Friday and left the next day with Papa for Casamance...and we moved people around in the house to make room for them all. Then two more the day before Melanie and I left. Strange...
I have definitely been exposed to this concept more so than ever before with my new family in Fatick. Like I've already mentioned, they snuck one of the oranges that I had bought for THEM, into my room. Another thing, which is actually really nice of my host mom, I woke up and opened the door my first morning here, and found a pair of sandals that weren't mine, in front of my door next to my own. I wasn't sure who's they were, but they were clearly laid out for me. When I asked about them later, my host mom replied that they were her sandals, and that they were so I could wear them to the shower. It's really nice...but now I don't know if I'm supposed to buy my own and give them back to her...and I'm not sure how she assumed I didn't have any of my own to begin with.
Another source of “hospitality”, which has been driving me nuts, is the maid. The first time I came home from work, I found my room strangely...empty. Now we had a maid in Dakar, who came in maybe once every week or two to sweep and clean the bathroom. But she always used to put everything back exactly where she found it. This maid seems to think she has to “arrange” my room, put everything in a new spot than where I originally put it. This is again, very “nice” of her...but I was irritated when I couldn't find anything I had put somewhere. All my dirty and clean clothes had been folded and piled together, and I couldn't find my towel or pajamas. I found them out on the line...they had been washed. Also, as I am trying to conserve trash bags for myself for obvious reasons, she had taken the trash bag that was still nearly empty that I had just started (with some tissues inside), and had taken it upon herself to throw it out for me. My sheet that my host mom had given me as a blanket was also gone. It was again, all very nice...but I was irritated none the less. I told my host mom that it was no problem at all for me to do my own laundry and I could clean my room myself, and she seemed relieved and said she would “give the order to the maid,” and that if I ever needed something cleaned, to let her know...otherwise the maid wouldn't go in my room.
The next day, the same thing happened. No sheets, towel, or pajamas, and more searching frantically to find things I had put in a certain place. RRR.
Also, up until yesterday, I hadn't said anything about the fact that my bedroom door doesn't close. This made me nervous at night, to have nothing but a curtain separating me from the outside world. Also, knowing Seydou – who is a cousin, not a “real” doom (biological child), and therefore is a huge troublemaker and 'asks to be hit,' as one of the other kids said when I asked why they had to hit Seydou – who constantly goes into my room and tries to 'take my money' and my 'camera' and all things fragile, I asked his parents if there was a way I could close my door. I said I was afraid the children would go into my room and take my things. This seemed to be the least insulting way I could put it. I didn't expect this, but THAT NIGHT, I come home to find a neighbor, who was also a handyman, taking a look at my bedroom door and fixing a new door handle/lock/key on it. It was pretty nice.
I was also given my own cup at breakfast, which was definitely what they considered to be appropriate for Westerners...it was the same ridiculously small type of teacup I had seen in France. It was basically big enough for an espresso-sized shot of tea. I felt like saying, “I'm American...don't you know we like everything big?? I'm not French!” So I just took it upon myself to nonchalantly take a different mug, which was bigger. They had also bought cheese especially for me, even when no one else in the family eats it. I said I prefer butter or chocolate – two of the items already on the table.
They also crack up during lunch and dinner when I cut up the items in the middle and distribute it to everyone's section of the bowl....as is polite, what you're supposed to do. I did this in Dakar, and the first couple times were met with chuckles and grins. But after that, they didn't say anything. Today, I was told by the 12 year old girl that “Danielle - c'est nous qui doivent le faire,” (It's us who have to do it), in an almost patronizing way, “C'est toi l'etrangere.” (You're the stranger/visitor from abroad). I said in French, “It's something the family does, right? I'm part of the family, right?” I also happened to be wearing my Senegalese outfit (because it's Friday), and I said, “Did you not notice that I'm not an “etrangere,” I'm Senegalese!” Everyone laughed, and Mama Sow gave me a high five. Everyone seemed to enjoy that, and the matter was dropped.
Also, EVERY time I finish eating, which is always more than the other women have eaten, and I put my spoon down and try to get up – everyone said, “Danielle, tu ne manges plus?” (You're not eating anymore?) “Danielle, il n'etait pas bon?” (It wasn't good?) “Tu n'as pas bien mange” (You didn't eat well/enough). Of course I have to say, “Non, neex na torop, surr na, lekk naa torop, jeureujeuf” (No, it was too delicious, I'm full, I had too much, thank you). It's like please, obviously, I've had enough and I enjoyed it...just once, let me get up in peace and be on my way. They don't say this to anyone else in the family. Just one of these days, I want to be like, “No? You're right, I DIDN'T eat enough.” And then sit back down, and eat everyone else's food. Maybe then they wouldn't be so quick to encourage me to eat more.
Food=delicious...it's inevitable that I will gain back all the weight I lost here
Speaking of food...it's delicious. I don't want to play favorites, but this food is definitely better than the food I had with my family in Dakar. It's flavorful, the quality of the items used is good, and it's just really good. Aside from the fact that the women don't eat anything and I feel like a huge pig compared to them, and the fact that the other day there were TWELVE people eating around the same bowl (the laundress and her baby, the six kids, the maid, me, and the parents), it is ridiculously good. We had both kids of ciep bu jen already, and some other dishes I've never had before. One had this curry-tasting green sauce with white potatoes, onions, and beef, which you pick up with bread. I didn't know this at first, and used up all of my bread in the first five minutes...and of course everyone around me reached for more bread the second I put the last piece in my mouth.
Of course we had couscous, which is a typically non-Dakar thing to eat. This is not the typical North African/Middle Eastern couscous we all know and love that comes in a box in the States...this is millet couscous. It's not fluffy, its thick and heavy and paste-like...and when you thought you haven't eaten that much, ten minutes later it “gonffle” in your stomach (expands), and you feel like you've eaten a cow. We have that with this peanuty-onion sauce that you spread over it and mix.
They also made this one dish with millet that is a Catholic dish, that is only made on Good Friday. It has:
Peanut powder/oil
Millet
Buiy juice (juice from baobab fruits)
Water
Sugar
Bananas
Oranges
It's delicious...you eat it in a cup with a spoon.
I think I need to somehow find a way to cut back on the amount I eat though, regardless of their pleading. With this lack of exercise because of the heat, added to how much I've been eating, I don't want to come home looking like a blimp...well...like most of the women here.
What I find funny is what my host dad said this morning at breakfast. I heard toubab, and “grossir” in the midst of their conversation, and asked him what he was talking about. He said “Normally, the white skins (white people) who come here don't eat nearly enough...they don't eat what's necessarily to gain wait.” He said this with a completely straight face. I said, “Well...of course not...Americans don't like to get fat.” I immediately regretted saying this, because my host mom has obviously seen no reason not to become obese. I said, “Well...there are different standards of beauty in the United States.” And that's where it stopped, because a neighbor came in. Saved by the bell....oh wait, there isn't one.
Kids are Cute...but they're also Good Birth Control
Ngone has been sick ever since I arrived here. Unlike young children in the United States, who when seen sneezing or coughing, are told to cover their mouths, in Senegal one person's sickness is everyone's potential sickness. They don't even try. Occasionally they'll wipe her nose clean of snot, but this is as far as it goes. They share cups of water, and I've seen her boogers float into the water, and then she passes it to the next person. Thank God I have my own private filtered water in my room. Every time we sit down to eat, she insists on sitting in front of me. She steals food with her germy spoon from my section, coughs and sneezes directly into the food that everyone shares. This makes me cringe and feel sick to my stomach, but no one says anything. When I had my computer out today, she touched the screen with boogery hands, and then sneezed all over the screen. This is the last time I'm bringing it out into the common area. Seydou then thinks it’s a game, and starts to touch the monitor when I'm not looking. Assan licked off my spoon the other day when it fell into the bowl of food, and gave it back to me. Today Ngone got up and puked on the chair next to the food during lunch. I almost hurled, myself.
Everyone goes to bed early. Also, Muslims don't drink alcohol, and don't think highly of girls drinking or going out in general...so no going to bars I assume. This is so different from Dakar.
I wish I had someone my own age. I'm just going to say that off the bat. I'm used to not having children around...and while this is a great experience, and I'm actually learning a lot of Wolof with them, I miss having someone I can relate to and hang out with. When I mentioned this in passing last night around 10:15 to my host parents, after most of the kids except Ngone were in bed, they mumbled something in Wolof, and said, “Nungi dem, kaay.” (We're going, come on). I said, “What? Where are we going?” “To meet our family in Fatick,” they replied, “They don't live far. And they have some people your age.” “Um...ok, but it's late! We can go tomorrow, this isn't urgent!” “No no, we'll go now.”
So off we went, Ngone, Yaay and Papa Sow, and me, in the old family car. We drove off through the sand, avoiding cows and donkeys, through the main road of Fatick, and then off on a side street...until we arrived at a house. Of course it was one story and cement, and as we descended from the car, a woman with no nose came out of the house to greet us. It was Abdoullaye's mother. I'm not sure how I can describe a person with no nose, but it just looked like something was missing...and clearly it was. Just teeth and eyes, in a black face...it was dark out too, and she had on a beautiful white boubou. I shook her hand, and she seemed clearly happy to see me, although it was hard to tell. We followed her into the house where a man was seated doing his prayer beads (like rosary, but for Muslims), and stopped to say hello to me. Of course they all got a kick out of me speaking basic salutatory phrases in Wolof. There was Abdoullaye's sister, brother and his wife, and his other brother and his wife, along with some other random people. We went into a random bedroom where some people were watching tv...there were a bunch of men in the room listening to a woman speak. Although I can't tell you the exact words in Wolof, I understood the gist – this woman was a major feminist, and said “Can you imagine a Senegal where woman have a hand in politics?” She was saying that it's time women are taken seriously, and that they need to be “alphabetized” so they can contribute to society. She said it isn't a real democracy until “jigeens” have a clear voice in government. She said a whole lot more, but that's what I got out of it.
Ngone was tired by this point and sat on my lap, after coming back into the room with sorbet in plastic baggies, that someone in the house had given her. They were good, but hard to open. Water comes in these little baggies too, and you have to bit open the corner to eat it. A girl in a towel poked her head in, and my host parents announced that this was “the girl who was my age,” who had been designated to hang out with me one of these days. The man and woman who were married, sitting next to me, were also supposedly my age. But they didn't suggest I hang out with a married couple...wonder why...We then said goodbye, “ba baneen yoon,” and left.
In addition, I have not been able to go out on my own. I'm not sure whether it's because I'm American (and my two months in Dakar are essentially meaningless here, they assume I've started from square one) and don't know anything, or because I'm a girl, or because they're the parents of extremely small children or what – or a combination of all three – but when I suggested I go out for a walk the other night (after asking if it was “safe” to do so, and they said yes)...they made me take some of their money, and three of the kids, to go to a boutique and get Coca Cola. I think they just didn't understand the idea of walking without a purpose, and were bothered by the idea of me doing it alone, at any rate. I also suggested, after the third time at the Cyber Cafe, that I go alone. Mama Sow wouldn't hear of it...she freaked out, laughed, and said I would go with the boys at 4:00 when they went back to school. (From 1:00pm – 4:00pm kids have a break for lunch here...then they go until 6:00pm). I said, “But I know the way, it's not necessary.” But she definitely put her foot down and wouldn't hear otherwise. It's about a 10 minute walk. She finally compromised and said “maybe” after this week, she'll consider me going places alone. We'll see. It's a bit frustrating.
Boobs, boobs and more...boobs
So it started out with the “cassiere” at work, Binda Deme. I noticed it with her too, but today I realized that most women that come in are like this. They either don't wear a bra under their extremely transparent African clothes, or their bra falls down to expose breast and they don't care to fix it. Nipple and everything...old women too. This one woman adjusted her shirt at the window today (not really a window...but the bars), and her two breasts were obviously exposed to the world for about two minutes.
Later that first day, Yaay decided her breasts needed some air. We were sitting around, the tv playing music, all 6 kids and myself. She took off her top, and laid there with her breasts out. Just right there...for all the world to see. Even her 18 year old son....I tried not to look or make a face.
This same day, a neighbor woman came in to say hello to Yaay. She was excited and loud and energetic. She rushed over when she saw me and barraged me with the usual salutations in Wolof, and then grabbed my face...she kissed one cheek, then the other, then my mouth. I thought the worst was over. But as if I didn't feel violated enough, after asking how “I was going,” she took her finger and stabbed at my crotch with it...luckily she missed important parts, asking “And how is THIS doing?!!” She screamed, laughing at the top of her lungs, as if she had made the funniest joke known to man. I was so shell shocked, that I just laughed and said, “bu baax/baax na” (It's good). Needless to say, I felt really confused....my host dad had been standing right there, and didn't even notice or care. Apparently this is a totally normal way to tease another woman. I haven't even addressed this issue, and probably won't. It's just something to be aware of in the future, I suppose.
Everything I do is a spectacle
I have lost pretty much all my privacy. I've tried to read/listen to music/write in my blog out in the common area, just to be around the family, but this doesn't work. I immediately become the center of attention, which is really annoying when these are the activities I used to do to de-stress and be alone. What I'm writing/reading/listening to become the most important thing for everyone in the room. “Oh look, Danielle's drawing!” “Oh look, Danielle's reading a book in English!” “What is this, an I pod?” Touchy touchy touchy, gimme gimme gimme...and me saying “Fragile la,” or “Xaraal” or “Deedet,” it works for about 10 seconds...but just like when I used to babysit in the States, kids forget after a while and go right back to doing the same thing. It's so tiring...and it's only been a week.
Every time I'm doing anything, the kids and parents come around to watch. This makes it especially hard when I'm writing in my blog, because I don't want to do this in my room...this would make me seem unsociable. Luckily they don't understand English, which is good...especially the part I just wrote about Ngone being sick, or the boob touching.
And it's not just the family that gives me special attention 24/7. I might get a prolonged glance here and there in Dakar, but in Fatick – I might be the only toubab in the entire city, and have been the only one in months. Apparently some Canadians came to the kids' school the other day, but that was it. Therefore, a person with “peau blanche” is a HUGE deal. It's like a parade when I walk on the main street with my host siblings, people turn around on bikes, kids scream “TOUBAB!! TOUBAB!” like little birds, and chase us down the sidewalk. Men stare from across the road, and dare to say, “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” Aiyaya......what is so interesting??? I mean I get it, but I don't. I don't like it, is what I mean to say. I know I don't deserve all this attention, and I hardly know how to handle it...except smile and wave like Miss America. That's pretty much what I am here.
Fear of the Hole in the Ground
door doesn't close...gross...3 year old isn't all the way potty trained yet...unpleasant. That's all I need to say. I try to use the toilet at work for other business, because it actually flushes. But like most of the real toilets here, the seat doesn't attach...and I almost fell in once because the seat slid out from under me when I sat down. Haha:)
Internship = harder than I thought...language barrier
I need to speak with Yaay one of these days...I'm having a rough time at work. I understand most of what is said to me, but unfortunately this isn't enough to understand complex financial procedures. It's basically like a mini bank...transactions are recorded, stored, and analyzed at a quick pace, with women waiting in line. I still don't understand the procedures; I simply do what Binta tells me without understanding WHY I'm doing it. I've asked her questions before, like “How do you know that it's a depot (deposit) and when it's a rembursement (reimbursement), with interet (interet), etc?” Binta did not react the way I expected, and the other women that were standing at the window started laughing. She did too, and feigned insult, “Why, I know!” She exclaimed, as if I had been challenging her competence. I tried to explain that it was important for me to understand how she knew, so I didn't have to keep bothering her. The situation was already over, though. Now I'm afraid to ask questions. Sometimes I have to write the full amount of what the particular woman is giving the mutuelle as a reimbursement, or sometimes Binta has me write part of it as that and part of it as a depot, etc. I try to figure out the pattern, but I really have no idea at all. And it doesn't help that I've already had to look up 30 vocabulary words in French that have to do with finance and banking, at the cyber cafe. That helped a bit, but each French word has a Wolof counterpart that is used more often – the only time anyone speaks French is when they're talking to me, when I'm talking to them, or when they're saying numbers. Numbers are almost always in French.
That's another thing that's been hard...numbers. She'll hand me the booklet where I fill out the woman's group number, how much she's depositing, the date, etc, and make carbon copies...and Binta will count the “billetage” (bills), and tell me in supersonic speed what the number is. This sounds easy, and of course numbers were the first thing I learned in French. But it's not that simple. “Huit cent quatre-vingt douze mille deux cent soixante dix.” Reading it spelled out is one thing...but when a woman yells it to you super fast from the other side of the room, it takes me a minute to figure out what she just said. Also, when I read numbers that Binta already wrote, it screws me up all the time as well. The way the French “2” is written, is not at all how we write it. We write it like you see here, on the computer...go figure; Americans configured most computer typing systems. French “2”'s look more like a backward “P”, only more loopy. It looks so bizarre, especially when she's writing fast. It genuinely looks like a 9. So I kept copying numbers down as 900, etc, when it was really 200. What was even more frustrating is that we went through the whole explanation, and laughed about it...and I STILL kept screwing it up a few times. It's better now, but she wasn't very understanding about it. I wouldn't expect her to be, these numbers are kind of important. But she was acting as if she was taking it personally, as if I was criticizing her handwriting or something.
I've spent my time the past two days in the back room on the one computer, typing up an Annual Mutuelle Report for 2008. It was all handwritten....which was a joy, because Madame Sow's handwriting isn't much better. It took a lot of logic and context clues to figure out what she could have meant in French...which was actually good language practice for me. It also helped me learn a bit of official French jargon...and a lot of new vocab. But it was frustrating as hell.
I've learned that I really don't like French people
It's not just the French. Americans have their unbearable qualities too that I won't bother going into at the moment. It's just worth mentioning that the Americans are not BY FAR off the hook, just because I've – surprise – decided to rag on the French for once in my life.
Maybe it's the particular French people who have felt inclined to make the journey here to Senegal. But overall, they're either tourists who think that Senegal still belongs to France – and is basically an amusement park (I always hear, “Je suis en vacances!”...meaning they think they can do whatever they want) - or they're like the students I met yesterday.
I was told that we had a meeting at work with PDF (Promotion pour le Developpement des Femmes), but I wasn't told that we'd be meeting with students from France who are younger than me. They apparently are here for 10 days on an “internship.”...although I'm not sure how effective an internship is if it's only for 10 days, but anyway. There are supposedly quite a large number of them here, but during 10 days, they split up and interview women's organizations in the area that benefit from PDF subsidization (it's a Belgian NGO). I suppose part of the reason I got a negative vibe from these students right off the bat is because I have started to adopt somewhat of a Senegalese mentality...I expect chatting, warmth, genuine interest, and lots of sincere smiling before I get “down to business.” I expect people to be sincere. I guess I just didn't get that from these French girls at all...and now that I think about it, if they had been American, I would have gotten the same vibe. In fact, if I had been in these girl's position two months ago, I probably would have conducted the interview and behaved in the same, detached, plastic-smile, fake, polite manner that they were.
I happened to be wearing my Senegalese outfit that day, because it was Friday yesterday – and that's like a tradition here, kind of like casual Fridays in the States. They looked me up and down and it was obvious they were judging me because of this because they assumed I always dress like this...I don't know, I got a negative vibe.
They had a piece of paper that they used to ask questions, and didn't bother first asking Madame Sow or Binta how they were, etc – or thanking them for giving them the interview. They said this afterward, but it made the beginning of the meeting awkward. Every time they asked a question and Madame Sow answered, they said in an overwhelmingly patronizing tone of voice, “Oh, ok!!” As if they were talking to a 4 year old. Also, as I've learned to accept and even expect from the Senegalese, when you ask a question, they will take an INORDINATELY long time answering. This is partly because they are giving themselves more time to organize their thoughts clearly...but also, they enjoy being long winded. Being direct, short, and to the point is seen as lack of caring and disinterest. When Madame Sow proceeded to answer their questions in this manner, I saw them (right in front of her), look at each other and make a face like...oh my god....
I know she saw this look, and I found it extremely rude...even though in the back of my mind I understood their frustration. Also, when I attempted to explain something quickly to them because Madame Sow hadn't understood the question, they seemed to get defensive even with me. “Oui, carrement, on le comprend,” (Yes, obviously, we understand that). It is definitely a Western mentality; to take it personally if someone assumes you need more of an explanation than you think you do. It means you aren't competent, or are too dumb to figure it out on your own, or that it insults your independence. In Senegal, I've come to understand that “insulting your intelligence,” simply means that the person cares enough to drive the point home...to over-explain, to make sure you understand. It's “helping”, not insulting.
To make matters worse, I went to ask a question in French. The girls asked what happens when a woman in the group doesn't pay back her credit. After Madame Sow answered the question, I added, “Mais ca se passe pas tres frequemment, oui?” (That doesn't happen very often, right?) And once those words came out of my mouth....in my newly acquired Senegalese, half-remaining Parisen, sort of American accent...and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the girls look at each other and start giggling. I shot them a glance, feeling hot under the collar, and they avoided my stare. I looked at Binta, who had seen everything, and she laughed with me sympathetically. Her eyes seemed to say the same thing mine were...Those damn French...but don't worry about it. I said in French, making it loud enough for the girls to hear, “People laugh when I speak Wolof, people laugh when I speak French, I'm used to it by now.” Binta laughed with me, and slapped me high five, as if to say, I know how you feel and I admire you for making a joke out of it.
Madame Sow went to explain the structure of the mutuelle, and the girls were having a hard time understanding it. So she asked me to draw a flow chart, since she knows I can draw. I took out a piece of paper and started to draw what she was explaining, while I heard the French girls snickering over there in a 'I can't believe this' tone of voice...then one of them made a big show about getting up, snatching up the paper from me, and quickly completing the flowchart, then slapping it down on the desk in front of Madame Sow with a triumphant smile as if to say, 'See? We get it. Let's not waste time, stop insulting our intelligence.' It was very rude...and after the interview, Madame Sow and Binta started talking about this as well with laughter.
Later that day, around 6:00pm at home, Madame Sow said that more students from PDF were coming to talk to her women's group. She is the president of the mutuelle where I work, as well as the President of the women's group in our neighborhood (Daroum Salaam), as well as the coordinator for an alphabetization class. I have much admiration for this women...especially coming out and seeing the 8 officials from the mutuelle, which she started, who looked at her with admiration whenever she said anything. Then two more French girls came in and a French boy, who looked very uncomfortable. We went around the room and introduced ourselves, and they went on and on and on. They looked really confused when one of the women got off her chair and lay on the floor, stretching out lazily, putting her head in the lap of the woman next to her. This made me laugh inside my head, because this sort of thing is no longer strange to me, especially when one woman began nonchalantly scratching her breast. It was amusing because I am now habituated by this, but I remember being the same way as them...astounded by how different our ideals of 'professionalism' are, when it's appropriate to do certain things. People are much less impressed by the same 'higher than human' attitude people have during 'important, professional meetings.' They prefer to sit on the floor with their shoes off, and laugh, and converse, and go off topic once in a while and enjoy each other's company. The French people, and Americans too, prefer to sit straight-backed in the chair, smile too much, and act generally cold. A perfect example of this cross-cultural clashing, was when, in the middle of one of the French girl's well-thought out, carefully-articulated questions, one of the Senegalese woman interrupted her by saying, “I'm thirsty!! Does anyone want a drink?” The girl snapped her mouth closed in surprise, eyes wide, and forced a smile. Madame Sow said, “Do you want a drink? Our group has money.” They weren't sure how to answer this question, as they knew very well that the group didn't have a ton of money to spare, since that was the topic of discussion. They just changed the subject. When they asked Madame Sow if she had any questions after they were finished with the interview, she said with a cackle, “Do you have any money?” I started cracking up, as I knew this was a joke...but the French students laughed uncomfortably and were clearly 'mal a l'aise.'
l “Did you write your rules and regulations YOURSELVES?” They were surprised that the answer was yes.
l “Is the alphabetization class (which simply means teaching women how to read and write), for children too?” Of course the answer is just for the women who are part of the micro credit group. This question implied that the French girl did not know what kind of education standards there are in Senegal...she was implying also, that children here might not go to school/know how to read and write either. The reality of the situation, however, is that these women who are part of the group don't know how to read or write because the generation of women from which they come, which grew up during the 60's and 70's, education was much different. Women didn't have access to education, so the generation of women that are in these groups generally can't read or write. By contrast, the children of my generation from the 80's, and children presently are educated equally between the two sexes.
l “Do you know this woman well? Is she a friend of yours?” With a patronizing smile, when asking about a certain woman who did something in particular with PDF, in the middle of her story.
l I heard off to the side, between the French students, if they should call the van to come pick them up...as it had left. Someone said I don't think my telephone works...maybe we can use one in town. The girl said with a laugh, “Telephones? In Fatick?” As if this was an impossible idea. I was going to tell her that my host dad has a $200 (U.S.) international cell phone that is probably the nicest I've ever seen. I also wanted to tell her that my host brothers have a computer in their room where they play basketball video games.
Aside from the French people, there is really not much else to say. I suppose its worth mentioning that two weeks ago, a 45 year old Marabou (Islamic spiritual leader) raped our 19 year old neighbor. The apparently also often do this sort of abuse to their Talibes, the young boys who study the Koran under their care. Unfortunately, it isn’t only the Catholic priests that do this sort of thing. Sad.
Also worth mentioning that I talked to my host sisters today and they told me that the girls in their school won regionally for math; spelling; and science. They said the boys are never in the top ten for these subjects. She said they always do well in art…and that the girls think doing art is a waste of time. I told her it was strange…This is opposite in the U.S. Funny how much perceived gender roles affect how well we do in school.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
3-20-2009
So we returned from Casamance this morning, but before I get into that, I think I should mention what's been happening in the weeks since I wrote last.
One of the highlights was meeting Coyne Lloyd, an American who I met by chance on the street. Fortunately for him, I decided I wanted to skip Wolof class and come home early. By the bank in my neighborhood, I was walking in my own little world like I usually do, and an overly-enthusiastic white kid comes up to me with twinkles in his eyes, and says, “Are you American???”
“Yes,” I say slowly, smiling.
“Oh my God...you are the first white person I've seen here...I just arrived three hours ago!”
Turns out he lives two streets away from me in Sicap Baobab, which is sheer coincidence. I decided to take him under my wing.
He came here on his own, without a program and without a plan. He is taking off his junior year of college to do so.
I brought him home and introduced him to the family, and brought him up to the roof, where Jean-Marie was babysitting a tiny rottweiler puppy. He has two rottweilers already, but this puppy was his friend's. The dogs are never at the house, because the women here are scared of dogs. We played with this puppy, who was still drinking out of a bottle and could barely walk...she fell asleep in my lap at one point, which was cute. I fed her from the bottle and got milk all over my jeans. I brought her inside Jean-Marie's room for a minute to ask him where I should put the puppy, and at that exact moment, she decided to “faire pepe” all over his carpet.
I then took him over to Casino and Oasis, which is are good places to know how to get to. The whole way, I found myself explaining everything I knew to him:
“You should never pay more than 1,500 CFA for a taxi, anywhere in Dakar”
“When the taxi driver suggests a price, always laugh and seem insulted”
“Everything is negotiable.”
“You are probably always going to get ripped off, as a toubab...just do your best, and don't be too trusting”
“Gerte sukkar are the best peanuts you can buy:)”
“If the talibes come up to you and ask for change, never just say “No,” that's considered rude. Instead, say “Baal ma, amuma xalis”. Or “Baneen yoon”
“Gazelle and Flag are Senegalese beers...you need to try them at least once.”
“Guard coin change like your life depends on it. Everyone will ask for it, but don't give it away. Coins are the hardest things to come by.”
“Never shake with your left hand.”
“Yassa is delicious...just don't eat the bitter eggplant.”
“Contrary to what you may be thinking, car rapides are actually quite safe.”
“Learn some words in Wolof, like Nanga def?”
Through all of this advice, I had an out of body experience. I saw myself from outside, and was impressed. I really have learned a lot in the last two months, and he really enjoyed having someone explain things to him. I was really proud that I got to this point after all this time, enough to guide someone else.
For the next week or two, Coyne and I ran into each other several times. I went to his house, met his family and his host brother, Mbacke, who was pretty nice. He found his way to W.A.R.C. With my directions, and spoke to Waly, who promised to help him find an internship in Dakar. Overall, everyone agreed, Coyne is a pretty lucky guy.
Last Friday we had a get-together on our roof. Eleven people came over: Nellie, Ellie, Kelsey, Magretta, Josh, Coyne, Mbacke, Henry, Seth, me and Melanie. We bought some cheap rum, Mango juice and some Gazelles. We brought up chairs and sat around on the roof and talked until 4 in the morning. It was a bit windy, so we all snuggled up under blankets. Only one thing went wrong, on the way up the stairs, Nellie dropped two of our family's glasses and they shattered. A few days later, however, Nellie went to the market and bought two new glasses for the family, so it was fine.
On a side note, I had discovered a lot of kittens around the city that week. I mean nests where cats had tried haphazardly to hide their babies. Usually there was only one or two kittens, maybe three, left. I saw one tiny kitten who could barely walk, whose eyes had just opened, climbing among the rubble and garbage by Antoine's friend's house. I tried to go over there, and felt like I should somehow help it. It was meowing in this tiny voice. Antoine said insensitively, “It's probably going to die...a dog will probably eat it as soon as we leave.” This of course made me more upset, even though I was half joking with him. One my way home I saw three gray kittens mewing incessantly, climbing over each other in a garbage pile in the corner. There was an old man's shirt lying next to them, so I covered them up and walked away. That way, at least, they wouldn't be exposed.
Speaking of animals, I went to the zoo with Antoine last week. Despite hearing advice not to go, I went anyway. Antoine said the last time he had been to the zoo was when he was five, and he remembered it being terrible; that the animals were not treated well, and were thin and sick. We arrived, however, and he was pretty surprised at how much it had changed. There was a long road into a wooded area, with palm trees and a high fence. It was only 500 CFA to get in, and when we went in, it reminded me of pictures of zoos from the turn of the century. They were just plain cages, only a few feet from the public, without anything to climb on or any elements that would be reminiscent of their natural habitat. I have never been that close to monkeys, or lions, or anything. There were no signs or information for people to read and learn about the animals, so a lot of their behavior was made to be a mystery. This encouraged people to get afraid when the lions roared, which did not phase me in the least bit. Antoine was afraid that they were planning to escape their cages, to which I replied, was ridiculous. The reason they were vexed, was because the male of the pride was separated off to the side from his lionesses; separated only by bars – so he could see his females, he just couldn't interact with them. The roaring was following by intense rubbing through the bars by both sides. It was actually sad to watch – I didn't find it terrifying at all.
Antoine also found it hilarious that the tiger always sleeps on his back and doesn't do anything. This tiger was in probably a 12 foot by 12 foot enclosure with a ball inside to play with, along with a water dish. That's it. I said, “What else is it supposed to do?? Of course he sleeps all the time – he's bored!” I don't think that had ever occurred to him...meanwhile fathers were trying to scare their children as they looked at the tiger, in good fun, and the kids shrieked with laughter.
People's ignorance when it comes to wild beasts was evident all over the park. People would throw food at the animals through the bars, even candy, to which the animals would munch up as quickly as they could. There weren't even signed prohibiting this. Some preteen Senegalese boys were taunting the chimpanzee, who was hanging on the bars in his cage, all alone. They were throwing things and yelling at it, by which the chimpanzee eventually responded by launching the largest loogie I have ever seen directly at one of the boys. The spit traveled at least 10 feet, and smacked a boy directly in the face. He fell over, partly from the impact, and began to cry. He was the smallest one of the group, and the others began to laugh. The chimp bounced around angrily in his cage, making shrieking noises like, “I told you to leave me alone...let this kid be an example to the rest of you.” Antoine said sometimes the chimp poops in his hand and throws it at people as well. My response was, “Well I would too if I were him...some people deserve it.”
Unfortunately the bears were gone, which is what Antoine wanted to see; they had died five years ago, but they had never taken down the sign. They had crocodiles which seemed to be happy, although their water looked like slime from Nickelodeon's Double Dare. This sparked a debate between us about which is bigger, crocodiles or alligators – I said alligators...but apparently, after we searched later, we discovered some crocodiles are slightly bigger. Oh well.
One of the exhibits was outdoor with a pond in the middle, equally green and putrid, with various ducks and other water foul. One of the beautiful birds, which I had never seen before, had an infected wing which it was dragging on the ground. Of course there are no veterinarians to help it, although I was thinking, “All my Mom would have to do is amputate it and give it some antibiotics...” Instead we just joked that he would just get tossed over the other side of the wall to the crocodiles as food.
I kept wondering what people here would think if they came to Brookfield zoo...and saw animals as close as they get to their natural habitat – healthy, active, and interacting with each other as they would in nature. I tried to explain to him that we have places were it's like being in the jungle, with tons of different monkeys and apes jumping about in the trees, and it rains from time to time too. It was like he couldn't really imagine it, and I guess he wouldn't. In a place like that, people could also learn about their behavior, etc, and no longer be terrified for no reason. It was interesting to be 5 feet away from a baboon, whereas at Brookfield you practically need binoculars...but it's better for the animals, and in the end, isn't that what's important? Unfortunately, the money just isn't there for that kind of investment in Senegal – Antoine was surprised how “well” the animals were treated, he said it looked like they had enough to eat. I guess maybe we should count our blessings.
This past week was our vacation week before we begin our internships. A few weeks ahead of time, we started thinking of places to go. The original plan was not to go all together, but this is exactly what ended up happening. We all decided we wanted to go to Casamance, the “paradise” of Senegal, in the region south of Gambia. The is the only part of Senegal which has blooming flowers and tropical forests, even in the dry season. Even though the region has a history of separatist violence, the last attack on a tourist/any rioting was in 2006. We felt we would be fine, and everyone we met in Dakar that comes from Casamance (like our host father), says that the media overplays the threat in Casamance to a ridiculous point, and that it's perfectly safe.
We went to the port the week before and bought tickets for the boat. For $30 one way, we got a 8-person sleeper cabin on a boat that is more like a cruise ship. There is a bar, a restaurant, and two screens inside playing movies. After 15 hours, we would arrive in Zinguinchor.
We left this past Friday at 4:30pm. Before hand, Melanie and I stopped at My Shop to buy some snacks for the boat; we had no idea there would be a restaurant. Each household's roomates took a taxi together, and everyone met downtown at the port. We checked our baggage by showing our ticket, and they wrote our names on a sticker and took our bags away to the ship. We then went through a number of checkpoints which seemed sort of pointless, because each one just looked at our I.D. and compared it to our ticket. You'd think after looking at it once, the next six people don't need to do it.
We sat in the waiting room for a while, and then boarded the boat when we were told to. They made us sit on a bus and drove us literally 100 feet to the boat, which all of us agreed was a bit pointless. I think they just didn't want people milling about on the port.
The boat itself was a lot nicer than we were expecting. Considering about 5 years ago, the last boat to Casamance sunk in the ocean and everyone on board died, the government really invested a lot of money getting a nicer boat to earn back people's trust – and tourism money. There were these cushion-y seats in this theater type room with two big screens showing movies, where people paid the cheapest and they could sleep in these chairs. There were bathrooms and shower rooms for men and women, and cabins (which is what we got), where 8 people could sleep. I slept on the top bed, and each bed had an orange curtain that could slide closed once you were inside, for extra privacy.
We took naps for a while, then sat on the top deck and played cards in the darkness. We couldn't see a thing on either side of the boat as it slid along through the waves; it was like sailing through space. All we could hear was the water sloshing on the sides of the boat.
After a while, we all went to bed. At around 11:30 the next morning, an announcement came on to say we were approaching Zinguinchor. We went on deck to see green....something you don't ever see in Dakar, where the streets are paved with sand. On both sides of the boat, green mangroves sprung up from the water. A tiny port appeared, when we had pictured a booming tourist metropolis...sort of like Dakar, only tropical. Zinguinchor is nothing of the sort.
We got off the boat slowly, single file, along with everyone else, and entered an enormous room where all of our luggage was scattered. Hundreds of bags with tickets sat and waited to be claimed, and luckily I saw my duffel bag only after about 30 seconds. Once we had all claimed our baggage, we presented our tickets again to the men at the door (to make sure you took your own luggage), and stepped out into the sunshine.
I was overtook by the heat. The sun was stronger than Dakar, which because it sits on the Atlantic ocean, has a constant breeze. Zinguinchor sits on the Casamance river, which doesn't provide that much relief. There were people everywhere with Rasta dreadlocks, colorful clothing, and hassling the people getting off the boat for taxis. Of course there were women selling peanuts and oranges everywhere.
After we bought our return tickets for the boat, we tried to decide what we were all going to do. Originally, since there were 15 people, we wanted to split up and do our own thing. We had all done our own research on hotels, and such, but Brendon said that his family in Dakar (who had family there in Zinguinchor), offered a house for all of us to stay for free. Of course this meant we would pay a small fee anyway, as a “cadeau” (gift), about $2 a person. We couldn't refuse this, so we followed the cousin who had met us at the port. In addition to the idea of a “free” logging arrangement, we discovered that the family had rented a bus as well with 15 seats for us. All of us got in together, and traveled through Zinguinchor toward the house, which looked like an unfinished cement, one story building from the outside.
Once we went in, however, despite it having a slightly dank odor and being pretty dark, it was perfect. There was plenty of space, and Kelsey, Melanie and myself chose the room with the king sized mattress with the only bathroom. I took a shower right away, and since Casamance is much hotter than Dakar; the water was warm. Once everyone had gotten settled and showered, we walked down the main road back toward the round point in the town center. We passed a gas station, where around twenty cars were stopped, honking, drivers looking anxious. Brendon’s family’s….person….who was guiding us around, said there was presently no gasoline in the entire town. We started to wonder if we really would be able to leave in the morning for Capskirring….or if we’d be stuck in Zuiginchor for longer than intended with nothing to do.
We were led to a very tourist-y, toubab restaurant and ordered lunch. I even ordered strawberry ice cream for dessert. Why not; I was on vacation, right? Since it was so hot, I just ordered a Senegalese style salad to go along with it…hard boiled egg slices, shredded carrots and lettuce with mustard vinaigrette over the top. Delicious.
Then half of us walked about 20 minutes to the market, and explored. People were pretty aggressive, and prices were higher than in Dakar. It was strange…it was crowded and a pretty big city, but there still weren’t any multi-level buildings like I suppose I had been expecting. Everything was the same run-down, cement and scrap metal hole in the wall type boutiques with modern products inside, that went on for miles. Jewelry, sandals; shells, food, monkeys….yes, monkeys; tied to a pole. When Henry took out his camera and went to photograph the monkey, a group of young men nearby got a little angry at him. Indignant, they said either we should have at least asked their permission before photographing their monkey, or pay 200 CFA. We laughed at first, because they were half laughing….then we realized they were laughing AT us, and expressing their irritation….how could we not have KNOWN that??...I then realized, once I put my Senegalese culture thinking-cap on, and switched mentalities; it suddenly did make sense why we had been acting rude. We should have indeed asked them first before photographing their monkey.
Henry and I challenged some local boys to a game of foosball, which is extremely popular everywhere in Senegal so far. We lost horribly both times. They even had us play once for free, because they thought it was awesome to play with some inexperienced white people…and yes, we attracted a huge crowd. It was both humiliating and fun.
After our wandering in the market, we then tried to find our way back to the house. This didn’t work out so well because we couldn’t agree on which direction to go….so Josh, Magretta and I split off. We wandered around and saw decayed; rusted taxi corpses sitting on the side of the road, cars that had been picked clean of parts, even window panes. People shouted “Toubab!!” to me…Magretta and Josh are both black, so I was getting most of the attention. I hated it, but I took it in stride…white skin is not a common site in the neighborhoods where we were, unintentionally, trying to find out way home….the white people don’t stay long here, and if they do; they’re in the hotels, far away from the actual people who live here. Oh, the French.
We eventually found our way back by nightfall, not far behind the others. We were surprised to see a GIGANTIC female pig; teats dangling; her piglets trotting after her across the road. In Dakar this is rare, most people don’t eat pork…we assumed there must be quite a few Catholics down here…remnants of the long colonial influence – Catholic missionaries long before that - in the south of Senegal.
I showered again, sweating buckets. Then we all went out to find food. I was really irritated by this point, because there were so many of us, we couldn’t agree on a restaurant. We finally split up after much annoyance, and after three attempts at finding a restaurant, I settled on the last one. Three people, including Henry who is the cheapest person I have ever met, decided that 6 dollars for a steak was too much money and continued on. I got beef curry with real mashed potatoes, not the local potatoes I have been getting used to here…along with a banana split for dessert which I shared with Kelsey. It was touristy and pretty…with drawings on the wall that went with the typical “African” figurines and statuettes everywhere…helping rich white foreigners complete their “authentic” African experience. The drawings depicted romanticized village life – the way most Americans still picture Africa…if not for movies like Blood Diamond and Hotel Rwanda – half nude women and straw huts with elephants walking around. There are no elephants in Senegal, by the way….it isn’t Kenya. It was ironic because the “real” Africa was right outside the doors…..dirty, crowded, hard, stressful, polluted, busy and…wonderful.
We went out to a bar afterwards, called Barack….who knows; it could have been renamed after the US Presidential election. It was small; crowded and cheap, but everyone was dancing and having a great time. I got pretty annoyed though when this old man, about 60 years old, kept asking his buddies to ask me to dance with him. I would look over and he would stare back creepily, and wave. I kept making excuses, like I was sick or tired, but when I started dancing eventually, he grabbed my arm and demanded to know that obviously I wasn’t sick…so why wasn’t I dancing with him?? His friend then punched my arm, pretty hard, pretending it was a joke…which was weird. We left this bar after that, because everyone had seen that happen and decided it was time to leave. We went to another place, a nightclub with blacklights, with a ton of young Senegalese there dancing. It was great, and I saw a guy that I had met on the boat down to Casamance. Then the power cut out, leaving everyone in total darkness….hooray for Senegal and frequent power outages!!
We decided that was our cue to leave, and we went home. The next morning we played cards, and waited for a bus that Brendon’s contact had managed to dig up. It was a 15 passenger again, and took us to Capskirring.
I’m running out of time in the cyber café, so I’ll write about Capskirring another time. For now, so much has happened since Casamance, keep reading below…
So after a quick weekend after we got back from Casamance, we left yesterday morning at 7:30am for our “stages” (internships). For me, the past 24 hours have been an emotional and mental drain on me – it is definitely not as easy and smooth as I had anticipated.
Just when I had begun to feel comfortable and overcome two months of culture shock, gotten close to my family, it was time to leave. I had finally discovered how to get my own breakfast, where everything in the kitchen went, to do my own laundry, etc, and had finally figured out how to navigate the maze that is my neighborhood of Sicap Baobab. I also had gotten used to having someone there all the time with whom I could express myself in English (Melanie), if I ever felt frustrated or confused. I got used to going to bed at night and being able to laugh and chat with another person I could relate to.
I know what you all are thinking. That's what study abroad is for, right? Always keeping you on your toes, and pushing you beyond your comfort level? And I wholeheartedly agree with this statement. But when you're actually experiencing this, it's different. You have a short-lived sense of accomplishment and pride, and the prospect of starting all over again with a totally new place/new people, totally alone, with no English...is frightening, to say the least.
I hung out with Antoine and his friends in Liberte 6 (another neighborhood) Saturday night, but it was a bit frustrating, because after all of his friends did the introductory, one-dimensional conversation with me in French “what's your name, what are you doing here, how long are you here, how do you like Senegal, etc”, they began to speak in rapid street Wolof. I say street Wolof, because Dakar Wolof itself is different than “pure Wolof” because it is a mix of French and Wolof...and street Wolof is a mix of French, English and Wolof slang all mixed together. (the equivalent of “ya know?” is “xam rekk” to know only). So basically the chances of me understanding what was going on was slim to none. I couldn't even interject or say anything in French, because it would have just stopped the entire conversation. So after a few hours of awkward half-interactions with Antoine's friends, and mostly just anthropological observation of how young Senegalese in their early 20's interact, I said I was tired and wanted to go home. The good thing was Antoine's best friend, Gibee (sp?), and I ganged up on him and called him a girl. It's a long story, but I had teased them about dating each other, and Gibee wanted to know who I thought was the woman in their relationship. We agreed it was Antoine for a variety of reasons, and it became this huge joke. It was fun...I bonded with one of his friends, at least.
Apparently there had been a curfew Saturday night because of the local elections, just to be on the safe side, but I hadn't been aware of it until Josh called me and asked if I was “still planning to go out,” and I replied that I already was in Liberte 6 with Antoine, and he hadn't mentioned it. When I asked Antoine about a curfew, they all assured me that it was “safe”, and that this neighborhood was “tranquille” and that there was nothing to be concerned about. Turned out they were right.
The elections itself were pretty interesting Friday and Saturday, as I walked home from the post office. I saw groups of young students, high school aged and college, walking around with signs and pamphlets, all wearing matching white shirts with Abdullaye Wade's son, Karim, on the front. The President of Senegal is not generally well-liked by his people, and is not very democratic to say the least. People here are worried their government will become even more like other corrupt African governments. Moreover, most people were not happy that Wade's son is now running for mayor – and possibly the next President in 2012. The opinion I heard about this is that the Senegalese “vont pas l'accepter.” I think you can guess what this means. The other posts that were running were local supervisors for different neighborhoods and districts, and Kelsey and Magretta's host brother was one of them. While walking toward Baobab, I saw parades of cars and decorated horse and carts, with speaker systems blaring music, and people crammed inside the carts wearing matching shirts and waving their arms. Slogans I saw were “Ecouter et Agir” (to listen and to act), “On en a marre – Osons changer” (We're sick of it...Dare to change). Pamphlets we saw being passed around even went so far as to give charts and numbers outlining how President Wade and his son Karim have stolen money from the Senegalese people, how Karim rents the entire 10th floor of a luxury hotel for him and his friends with tax money – and how Wade spends inordinate sums on the palm trees along the Corniche (the equivalent of Lake Shore Drive). Unfortunately, Melanie's Senegalese friend told her that Wade even pays certain people to vote multiple times throughout the city for his party, which is blatantly illegal and undemocratic. Of course many Senegalese I've spoken to don't even want to vote. Jean-Marie said he's not “motivated” to vote anymore, and a few of Antoine's friends said they're fed up with African politics, and they're all the same. It's understandable...I probably wouldn't want to either. The whole situation makes me so angry, considering Antoine and Kenjo waited at least 4 hours in line to vote...I can't imagine how frustrating it would be to be Senegalese. A part of me even starts to understand what drives people to violence in Africa against their governments...this story is all too familiar elsewhere. And when all official information is hidden, and any news that leaks out is either silenced (journalists imprisoned, etc), or in French like all other official business– when the vast majority of the country can't understand French, what is to be done??
The next day, Sunday, was spent packing and watching the results of Saturday night's local elections. Brendon said that when he was watching TV (I must have been in my room at this time), this man who owns three of Senegal's television channels interrupted the program to read a notice that he had received from the government, saying that all television channels would be forced to close down Monday. He said this was a breach of democracy, and was offensive, and that he would refuse to close down his channels the next day. Then, the minister of media called in and said that the notification had been false and “not notarized”. It seems a bit ridiculous that a document sent from his own ministry would not have been notarized...it was obvious the minister was lying, because they had not anticipated that the man would publicly announce it to the country, and he wanted to cover it up.
Luckily Wade's son didn't win, but according to Kelsey's host brother, the majority of politicians openly steal money...even some of the politicians he supports. Some people just accept this fact as the nature of politics. That night, Melanie and I hung out with Cathy, Keillor and Antoine. I gave the girls some of my jewelry, of which I have way too much, and they were pretty happy. It didn't really sink in that I wouldn't be seeing them for 6 weeks...and after that, simply a week....and then I would probably never see them again. It would never be the same...the routine we had all grown accustomed to was practically over.
At 6:15 Melanie and I woke up and got ready. We arranged our things, ate part of a baguette for breakfast, and left. We took a taxi to W.A.R.C. And at 7:30 everyone was packed and ready to go. We hopped into the bus and took off.
Everyone was chatting and laughing as usual, as if this was simply another MSID field trip. We ate raisin bread and a croissant for breakfast, and then oranges. I read a bit, and listened to my MP3 player. We had some pretty good discussions about 9/11 and the conspiracy theories behind it, as well as the elections. After about an hour and a half of driving, we pulled off the road (in the midst of yellowed grass and baobabs), to a tiny village with straw huts like the ones I had described in Toubacouta. This was Melanie's village, who had asked for a rural setting. She definitely got what she asked for. We all got out of the bus and followed her into the compound, through sand of course, where about 20 people had paused in their work to watch the scene. It's not every day that 14 Toubabs come into their village. The kids giggled and whispered amongst themselves, until I waved at them. They began to laugh amongst themselves, and waved back. Women stood shyly with plastic bowls on their heads, or sacks filled with grain, until some of them boldly came over and said, with a grin, in Wolof, “Nangeen def?” This was more of a challenge, instead of simply them greeting us. Even though they could say, “Bonjour, ca va?”, I've noticed a lot of Senegalese still refuse to speak French unless communication otherwise is impossible. Many times they assume we won't know what they're saying, but in a stubbornly prideful manner, they still insist on beginning in Wolof for the simple fact that THIS is their language – not French. Melanie's particular village doesn't speak French at all, except for her program director. She's actually showing a lot more courage than I would in her situation.
Melanie was led to a small hut of her own, with a curtain door. There was queen sized mattress on the floor, with pictures of Muslim Senegalese gurus on the walls. A sheet covered the ceiling, below the straw. It was pretty nice, all in all, private and comfortable.
After we said our goodbyes to Melanie, each of us giving her a hug one by one, I started to get butterflies in my stomach. It began to sink in, what was about to happen. I was next. It didn't help that as soon as we piled back into the van, Waly said, “Qui est la prochaine victime?” (Who's the next victim?)
I tried to keep my mind off what was about to happen by reading some more, but I couldn't concentrate. My stomach flipped over and over and over...I missed Dakar, my family, and what was this family going to be like? I knew nothing about it...kids? How old? What was Fatick going to be like? Were all the people going to swarm me like Melanie's village? How should I react? What if the rest of the family doesn't speak French?
The road curved slightly and I saw street lights which sprung up on either side of the road. I knew we were approaching a city. I saw palm trees and short buildings, boutiques, and eventually, we stopped in front of a one story building that was painted yellow. The van stopped, and I got out with Waly and Awa. Everyone else stayed in. The minute I stepped out of the van, the sun's heavy heat swept over me...and I realized that what everyone had said about Fatick was right...it's “chaud.” (It's 38 degrees Celsius today).
A regal woman wearing a flowing bright greenish blue boubou, about 43 years old, was waiting by the gate, smiling expectantly. It was Maman Sow (so) – my supervisor/host mom. She greeted me and led us toward the door. This wasn't the house I would be staying at, it was the mutual where I would be working. An old woman stopped me, and took my hand, on the way in, and I was forced to stop while she started the whole Wolof greeting exchange. The more Wolof salutations I answered correctly, the more she would laugh and continue to ask more. Then she threw in a Serer question, to which I had no idea what she was saying of course, and she cracked up and walked away. My heart was beating heavily in my chest with nervousness, and I was glad she had left.
We entered the building, and walked past a woman with neck length hair that had been straightened, wearing a bright lemon-yellow top and skirt Senegalese outfit. She smiled and greeted me, and we followed Madame Sow to the back room, where one computer sat, three chairs, a fan, and the door to a bathroom. We sat and Waly introduced me in Wolof, and gave Madame Sow the paperwork she would need to complete and sign. After sitting for a while, we got up and got back in the van, which drove about 30 seconds down the sand road to where Madame Sow lives.
It's a pink house with a green gate/wall in front. The front is a courtyard where the laundry lines hang, and two outhouses – one is a hole toilet, the other is a shower that has running water. Since it's so hot here, the shower is actually quite warm (which I was happy about....no more freezing Dakar showers!) The floor reminds me of Sicap Baobab – these colorful pieces of broken rocks that have been sanded down and glossed over flat, with mortar in between. Inside is this long living room with tile, and these sherbet orange and cream colored curtains that stretch from floor to ceiling and flow elegantly in the slight breeze. There is a distinctly Muslim themed embroidered tapestry which depicts Mecca over the pretty nice television. There are two chairs, and a bed in the living room against the wall, where everyone sits/eats dinner. I didn't notice a table, unlike my family in Dakar – which meant I would finally get an authentically Muslim family experience – like 90% of Senegal. This meant ataaya every day, and eating on a mat on the floor, maybe with my hands. Yes!
I used the 'toilet', and couldn't figure it out. The other four times I had used a hole, I had been wearing a skirt, by coincidence. This time I was wearing jeans, and it didn't work out too well. It's not as bad as you are probably imagining, but it's definitely something I need to learn how to master. I actually prefer the hole to a disgusting public toilet that you're forced to sit on. A hole is actually a lot cleaner than one would picture.
I wasn't feeling very well, even as everyone else oo'ed and awed over my house. I felt sort of dizzy and out of it, and my French definitely wasn't up to par. I think it was because of my nervousness.
Everyone left after a few minutes, after giving me hugs. Watching them get in the van and drive off in a cloud of dust made my stomach turn again...I was alone.
I went inside, and at 1:00 o'clock, the kids came home. There are 6 kids...the oldest is 18, named Assam. The youngest is 4, Ngonay...a little girl. The little boy who is slightly older than her, is named Seydou...he is Madame Sow's nephew. The other boy is 14 I think, and he's hit puberty...it's so cute, his voice keeps cracking. I can't remember anyone else's name....haha...they must have told me 8 times already. Once they saw me, all hell broke loose.
The little girl danced while the television played the same music station that I used to watch in Dakar, some modern Senegalese song which featured mbalax rhythms and dancing. She kept turning around to see if I was watching her. The others crowded around me and kept trying to speak Wolof. I just smiled and laughed and said, “Degguma” and “Wow” an awful lot....(I don't understand....yes...). I could say a few things like, “Fecc nga bu baax” (You dance well). But not enough to understand what they were saying. The two girls (ages 9 and 12), spoke French a bit, since they were learning it in school. The two older boys sat in the chairs, aloof, and ignored the ruckus of course, but I kept seeing them peek over. The little girl was fascinated by me, and jumped in my lap, looking at my face, and touching my hair. The other girls kept touching my hair too, saying it was so soft, and asked why I didn't have it braided. The little girl and I began to make faces at each other, while delighted her. They asked if I had a camera, which clued me in that there had been another American here. Sure enough, I was right. The little girl asked if I was going to stay with them forever now, and the others told her, “No, she's like Laura. Remember? She had to leave.” Turns out Laura was here last year, and also worked at the same Mutuelle down the street “Case Foray.”
We had ciep bu jen for lunch (rice and fish, Senegal's national dish), which I was expecting. We sat on low wooden stools on a pink sheet on the floor, with spoons. It was a deep bowl, which I wasn't used to. Even the four year old ate out of the bowl with a spoon, like everyone else, and her parents did not even watch her. I was stunned to see how her parents treated her like a little adult, in general, joking around with her, discussing with her in a very clear, matter-of-fact voice as they would with anyone else. Her mother would say simply “Kaay” (come) every once in a while to wipe off her nose and her pants if she got too dirty. Other than that, her mother didn't seem too concerned. In this way, Ngonay is a very independent, self-assured and pretty competent little four year old. When she fell down and hurt herself, no one said anything, so she got back up and kept running around. When she really started crying when her brother pretended to stab her with a knife, everyone started chuckling to themselves and said basically, “come on now, he didn't hurt you.” But her mother still accepted her into her arms when Ngonay ran over to her anyway.
I took a nap for about an hour and a half after wrestling with Ngonay and Seydou for an hour, who had followed me into my bedroom and proceeded to rummage through my stuff and steal my camera and my money. They wouldn't listen to “xaraal” (wait) and “deedet” (no), so I eventually had to get their mom, who was asleep. She shooed them out and told them to go sleep. At 4:00pm, they went back to school.
The kids got home from school again at 6:00pm. I went with the 14 year old into the market, as the sun was setting....because of the pollution in Dakar, I haven't seen a distinct sunset in a while. This one was hazy and orangy-pink, which was pretty with the silhouettes of palm trees reaching up from the street. Tons of people buzzed by in motorcycles, goats wandered around freely and Tigo shops, boutiques and even a tiny “gym” lined the streets. The market was like a mini version of HLM, more calm and less aggressive toward me. I bought a mirror and also some bananas, coconuts and oranges for the family. They were really happy about this, and divided them equally for everyone after dinner. Typically Senegalese – when I went into my room last night to go to bed; I discovered that one of the kids had snuck one of the oranges I had bought for THEM, into my room for me. How sweetJ
Went to work today and learned about the Mutuelle, but more about that tomorrow. Not sure I understand it all yet, so Ill wait until later to write.
Frustrating Problems with Measurement:
Things I always have to convert in my head:
Currency: CFA and dollars
Time: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 and then:
13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
Between Celsius and Farenheit
Sizes/height: Inches/Centimetres
Distance: Miles/Kilometers
Quantity: Pounds/Kilos
Why can't the U.S. just switch over to the systems of measurement EVERYONE ELSE USES??? It would make traveling SO much easier......!!!
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So we returned from Casamance this morning, but before I get into that, I think I should mention what's been happening in the weeks since I wrote last.
One of the highlights was meeting Coyne Lloyd, an American who I met by chance on the street. Fortunately for him, I decided I wanted to skip Wolof class and come home early. By the bank in my neighborhood, I was walking in my own little world like I usually do, and an overly-enthusiastic white kid comes up to me with twinkles in his eyes, and says, “Are you American???”
“Yes,” I say slowly, smiling.
“Oh my God...you are the first white person I've seen here...I just arrived three hours ago!”
Turns out he lives two streets away from me in Sicap Baobab, which is sheer coincidence. I decided to take him under my wing.
He came here on his own, without a program and without a plan. He is taking off his junior year of college to do so.
I brought him home and introduced him to the family, and brought him up to the roof, where Jean-Marie was babysitting a tiny rottweiler puppy. He has two rottweilers already, but this puppy was his friend's. The dogs are never at the house, because the women here are scared of dogs. We played with this puppy, who was still drinking out of a bottle and could barely walk...she fell asleep in my lap at one point, which was cute. I fed her from the bottle and got milk all over my jeans. I brought her inside Jean-Marie's room for a minute to ask him where I should put the puppy, and at that exact moment, she decided to “faire pepe” all over his carpet.
I then took him over to Casino and Oasis, which is are good places to know how to get to. The whole way, I found myself explaining everything I knew to him:
“You should never pay more than 1,500 CFA for a taxi, anywhere in Dakar”
“When the taxi driver suggests a price, always laugh and seem insulted”
“Everything is negotiable.”
“You are probably always going to get ripped off, as a toubab...just do your best, and don't be too trusting”
“Gerte sukkar are the best peanuts you can buy:)”
“If the talibes come up to you and ask for change, never just say “No,” that's considered rude. Instead, say “Baal ma, amuma xalis”. Or “Baneen yoon”
“Gazelle and Flag are Senegalese beers...you need to try them at least once.”
“Guard coin change like your life depends on it. Everyone will ask for it, but don't give it away. Coins are the hardest things to come by.”
“Never shake with your left hand.”
“Yassa is delicious...just don't eat the bitter eggplant.”
“Contrary to what you may be thinking, car rapides are actually quite safe.”
“Learn some words in Wolof, like Nanga def?”
Through all of this advice, I had an out of body experience. I saw myself from outside, and was impressed. I really have learned a lot in the last two months, and he really enjoyed having someone explain things to him. I was really proud that I got to this point after all this time, enough to guide someone else.
For the next week or two, Coyne and I ran into each other several times. I went to his house, met his family and his host brother, Mbacke, who was pretty nice. He found his way to W.A.R.C. With my directions, and spoke to Waly, who promised to help him find an internship in Dakar. Overall, everyone agreed, Coyne is a pretty lucky guy.
Last Friday we had a get-together on our roof. Eleven people came over: Nellie, Ellie, Kelsey, Magretta, Josh, Coyne, Mbacke, Henry, Seth, me and Melanie. We bought some cheap rum, Mango juice and some Gazelles. We brought up chairs and sat around on the roof and talked until 4 in the morning. It was a bit windy, so we all snuggled up under blankets. Only one thing went wrong, on the way up the stairs, Nellie dropped two of our family's glasses and they shattered. A few days later, however, Nellie went to the market and bought two new glasses for the family, so it was fine.
On a side note, I had discovered a lot of kittens around the city that week. I mean nests where cats had tried haphazardly to hide their babies. Usually there was only one or two kittens, maybe three, left. I saw one tiny kitten who could barely walk, whose eyes had just opened, climbing among the rubble and garbage by Antoine's friend's house. I tried to go over there, and felt like I should somehow help it. It was meowing in this tiny voice. Antoine said insensitively, “It's probably going to die...a dog will probably eat it as soon as we leave.” This of course made me more upset, even though I was half joking with him. One my way home I saw three gray kittens mewing incessantly, climbing over each other in a garbage pile in the corner. There was an old man's shirt lying next to them, so I covered them up and walked away. That way, at least, they wouldn't be exposed.
Speaking of animals, I went to the zoo with Antoine last week. Despite hearing advice not to go, I went anyway. Antoine said the last time he had been to the zoo was when he was five, and he remembered it being terrible; that the animals were not treated well, and were thin and sick. We arrived, however, and he was pretty surprised at how much it had changed. There was a long road into a wooded area, with palm trees and a high fence. It was only 500 CFA to get in, and when we went in, it reminded me of pictures of zoos from the turn of the century. They were just plain cages, only a few feet from the public, without anything to climb on or any elements that would be reminiscent of their natural habitat. I have never been that close to monkeys, or lions, or anything. There were no signs or information for people to read and learn about the animals, so a lot of their behavior was made to be a mystery. This encouraged people to get afraid when the lions roared, which did not phase me in the least bit. Antoine was afraid that they were planning to escape their cages, to which I replied, was ridiculous. The reason they were vexed, was because the male of the pride was separated off to the side from his lionesses; separated only by bars – so he could see his females, he just couldn't interact with them. The roaring was following by intense rubbing through the bars by both sides. It was actually sad to watch – I didn't find it terrifying at all.
Antoine also found it hilarious that the tiger always sleeps on his back and doesn't do anything. This tiger was in probably a 12 foot by 12 foot enclosure with a ball inside to play with, along with a water dish. That's it. I said, “What else is it supposed to do?? Of course he sleeps all the time – he's bored!” I don't think that had ever occurred to him...meanwhile fathers were trying to scare their children as they looked at the tiger, in good fun, and the kids shrieked with laughter.
People's ignorance when it comes to wild beasts was evident all over the park. People would throw food at the animals through the bars, even candy, to which the animals would munch up as quickly as they could. There weren't even signed prohibiting this. Some preteen Senegalese boys were taunting the chimpanzee, who was hanging on the bars in his cage, all alone. They were throwing things and yelling at it, by which the chimpanzee eventually responded by launching the largest loogie I have ever seen directly at one of the boys. The spit traveled at least 10 feet, and smacked a boy directly in the face. He fell over, partly from the impact, and began to cry. He was the smallest one of the group, and the others began to laugh. The chimp bounced around angrily in his cage, making shrieking noises like, “I told you to leave me alone...let this kid be an example to the rest of you.” Antoine said sometimes the chimp poops in his hand and throws it at people as well. My response was, “Well I would too if I were him...some people deserve it.”
Unfortunately the bears were gone, which is what Antoine wanted to see; they had died five years ago, but they had never taken down the sign. They had crocodiles which seemed to be happy, although their water looked like slime from Nickelodeon's Double Dare. This sparked a debate between us about which is bigger, crocodiles or alligators – I said alligators...but apparently, after we searched later, we discovered some crocodiles are slightly bigger. Oh well.
One of the exhibits was outdoor with a pond in the middle, equally green and putrid, with various ducks and other water foul. One of the beautiful birds, which I had never seen before, had an infected wing which it was dragging on the ground. Of course there are no veterinarians to help it, although I was thinking, “All my Mom would have to do is amputate it and give it some antibiotics...” Instead we just joked that he would just get tossed over the other side of the wall to the crocodiles as food.
I kept wondering what people here would think if they came to Brookfield zoo...and saw animals as close as they get to their natural habitat – healthy, active, and interacting with each other as they would in nature. I tried to explain to him that we have places were it's like being in the jungle, with tons of different monkeys and apes jumping about in the trees, and it rains from time to time too. It was like he couldn't really imagine it, and I guess he wouldn't. In a place like that, people could also learn about their behavior, etc, and no longer be terrified for no reason. It was interesting to be 5 feet away from a baboon, whereas at Brookfield you practically need binoculars...but it's better for the animals, and in the end, isn't that what's important? Unfortunately, the money just isn't there for that kind of investment in Senegal – Antoine was surprised how “well” the animals were treated, he said it looked like they had enough to eat. I guess maybe we should count our blessings.
This past week was our vacation week before we begin our internships. A few weeks ahead of time, we started thinking of places to go. The original plan was not to go all together, but this is exactly what ended up happening. We all decided we wanted to go to Casamance, the “paradise” of Senegal, in the region south of Gambia. The is the only part of Senegal which has blooming flowers and tropical forests, even in the dry season. Even though the region has a history of separatist violence, the last attack on a tourist/any rioting was in 2006. We felt we would be fine, and everyone we met in Dakar that comes from Casamance (like our host father), says that the media overplays the threat in Casamance to a ridiculous point, and that it's perfectly safe.
We went to the port the week before and bought tickets for the boat. For $30 one way, we got a 8-person sleeper cabin on a boat that is more like a cruise ship. There is a bar, a restaurant, and two screens inside playing movies. After 15 hours, we would arrive in Zinguinchor.
We left this past Friday at 4:30pm. Before hand, Melanie and I stopped at My Shop to buy some snacks for the boat; we had no idea there would be a restaurant. Each household's roomates took a taxi together, and everyone met downtown at the port. We checked our baggage by showing our ticket, and they wrote our names on a sticker and took our bags away to the ship. We then went through a number of checkpoints which seemed sort of pointless, because each one just looked at our I.D. and compared it to our ticket. You'd think after looking at it once, the next six people don't need to do it.
We sat in the waiting room for a while, and then boarded the boat when we were told to. They made us sit on a bus and drove us literally 100 feet to the boat, which all of us agreed was a bit pointless. I think they just didn't want people milling about on the port.
The boat itself was a lot nicer than we were expecting. Considering about 5 years ago, the last boat to Casamance sunk in the ocean and everyone on board died, the government really invested a lot of money getting a nicer boat to earn back people's trust – and tourism money. There were these cushion-y seats in this theater type room with two big screens showing movies, where people paid the cheapest and they could sleep in these chairs. There were bathrooms and shower rooms for men and women, and cabins (which is what we got), where 8 people could sleep. I slept on the top bed, and each bed had an orange curtain that could slide closed once you were inside, for extra privacy.
We took naps for a while, then sat on the top deck and played cards in the darkness. We couldn't see a thing on either side of the boat as it slid along through the waves; it was like sailing through space. All we could hear was the water sloshing on the sides of the boat.
After a while, we all went to bed. At around 11:30 the next morning, an announcement came on to say we were approaching Zinguinchor. We went on deck to see green....something you don't ever see in Dakar, where the streets are paved with sand. On both sides of the boat, green mangroves sprung up from the water. A tiny port appeared, when we had pictured a booming tourist metropolis...sort of like Dakar, only tropical. Zinguinchor is nothing of the sort.
We got off the boat slowly, single file, along with everyone else, and entered an enormous room where all of our luggage was scattered. Hundreds of bags with tickets sat and waited to be claimed, and luckily I saw my duffel bag only after about 30 seconds. Once we had all claimed our baggage, we presented our tickets again to the men at the door (to make sure you took your own luggage), and stepped out into the sunshine.
I was overtook by the heat. The sun was stronger than Dakar, which because it sits on the Atlantic ocean, has a constant breeze. Zinguinchor sits on the Casamance river, which doesn't provide that much relief. There were people everywhere with Rasta dreadlocks, colorful clothing, and hassling the people getting off the boat for taxis. Of course there were women selling peanuts and oranges everywhere.
After we bought our return tickets for the boat, we tried to decide what we were all going to do. Originally, since there were 15 people, we wanted to split up and do our own thing. We had all done our own research on hotels, and such, but Brendon said that his family in Dakar (who had family there in Zinguinchor), offered a house for all of us to stay for free. Of course this meant we would pay a small fee anyway, as a “cadeau” (gift), about $2 a person. We couldn't refuse this, so we followed the cousin who had met us at the port. In addition to the idea of a “free” logging arrangement, we discovered that the family had rented a bus as well with 15 seats for us. All of us got in together, and traveled through Zinguinchor toward the house, which looked like an unfinished cement, one story building from the outside.
Once we went in, however, despite it having a slightly dank odor and being pretty dark, it was perfect. There was plenty of space, and Kelsey, Melanie and myself chose the room with the king sized mattress with the only bathroom. I took a shower right away, and since Casamance is much hotter than Dakar; the water was warm. Once everyone had gotten settled and showered, we walked down the main road back toward the round point in the town center. We passed a gas station, where around twenty cars were stopped, honking, drivers looking anxious. Brendon’s family’s….person….who was guiding us around, said there was presently no gasoline in the entire town. We started to wonder if we really would be able to leave in the morning for Capskirring….or if we’d be stuck in Zuiginchor for longer than intended with nothing to do.
We were led to a very tourist-y, toubab restaurant and ordered lunch. I even ordered strawberry ice cream for dessert. Why not; I was on vacation, right? Since it was so hot, I just ordered a Senegalese style salad to go along with it…hard boiled egg slices, shredded carrots and lettuce with mustard vinaigrette over the top. Delicious.
Then half of us walked about 20 minutes to the market, and explored. People were pretty aggressive, and prices were higher than in Dakar. It was strange…it was crowded and a pretty big city, but there still weren’t any multi-level buildings like I suppose I had been expecting. Everything was the same run-down, cement and scrap metal hole in the wall type boutiques with modern products inside, that went on for miles. Jewelry, sandals; shells, food, monkeys….yes, monkeys; tied to a pole. When Henry took out his camera and went to photograph the monkey, a group of young men nearby got a little angry at him. Indignant, they said either we should have at least asked their permission before photographing their monkey, or pay 200 CFA. We laughed at first, because they were half laughing….then we realized they were laughing AT us, and expressing their irritation….how could we not have KNOWN that??...I then realized, once I put my Senegalese culture thinking-cap on, and switched mentalities; it suddenly did make sense why we had been acting rude. We should have indeed asked them first before photographing their monkey.
Henry and I challenged some local boys to a game of foosball, which is extremely popular everywhere in Senegal so far. We lost horribly both times. They even had us play once for free, because they thought it was awesome to play with some inexperienced white people…and yes, we attracted a huge crowd. It was both humiliating and fun.
After our wandering in the market, we then tried to find our way back to the house. This didn’t work out so well because we couldn’t agree on which direction to go….so Josh, Magretta and I split off. We wandered around and saw decayed; rusted taxi corpses sitting on the side of the road, cars that had been picked clean of parts, even window panes. People shouted “Toubab!!” to me…Magretta and Josh are both black, so I was getting most of the attention. I hated it, but I took it in stride…white skin is not a common site in the neighborhoods where we were, unintentionally, trying to find out way home….the white people don’t stay long here, and if they do; they’re in the hotels, far away from the actual people who live here. Oh, the French.
We eventually found our way back by nightfall, not far behind the others. We were surprised to see a GIGANTIC female pig; teats dangling; her piglets trotting after her across the road. In Dakar this is rare, most people don’t eat pork…we assumed there must be quite a few Catholics down here…remnants of the long colonial influence – Catholic missionaries long before that - in the south of Senegal.
I showered again, sweating buckets. Then we all went out to find food. I was really irritated by this point, because there were so many of us, we couldn’t agree on a restaurant. We finally split up after much annoyance, and after three attempts at finding a restaurant, I settled on the last one. Three people, including Henry who is the cheapest person I have ever met, decided that 6 dollars for a steak was too much money and continued on. I got beef curry with real mashed potatoes, not the local potatoes I have been getting used to here…along with a banana split for dessert which I shared with Kelsey. It was touristy and pretty…with drawings on the wall that went with the typical “African” figurines and statuettes everywhere…helping rich white foreigners complete their “authentic” African experience. The drawings depicted romanticized village life – the way most Americans still picture Africa…if not for movies like Blood Diamond and Hotel Rwanda – half nude women and straw huts with elephants walking around. There are no elephants in Senegal, by the way….it isn’t Kenya. It was ironic because the “real” Africa was right outside the doors…..dirty, crowded, hard, stressful, polluted, busy and…wonderful.
We went out to a bar afterwards, called Barack….who knows; it could have been renamed after the US Presidential election. It was small; crowded and cheap, but everyone was dancing and having a great time. I got pretty annoyed though when this old man, about 60 years old, kept asking his buddies to ask me to dance with him. I would look over and he would stare back creepily, and wave. I kept making excuses, like I was sick or tired, but when I started dancing eventually, he grabbed my arm and demanded to know that obviously I wasn’t sick…so why wasn’t I dancing with him?? His friend then punched my arm, pretty hard, pretending it was a joke…which was weird. We left this bar after that, because everyone had seen that happen and decided it was time to leave. We went to another place, a nightclub with blacklights, with a ton of young Senegalese there dancing. It was great, and I saw a guy that I had met on the boat down to Casamance. Then the power cut out, leaving everyone in total darkness….hooray for Senegal and frequent power outages!!
We decided that was our cue to leave, and we went home. The next morning we played cards, and waited for a bus that Brendon’s contact had managed to dig up. It was a 15 passenger again, and took us to Capskirring.
I’m running out of time in the cyber café, so I’ll write about Capskirring another time. For now, so much has happened since Casamance, keep reading below…
So after a quick weekend after we got back from Casamance, we left yesterday morning at 7:30am for our “stages” (internships). For me, the past 24 hours have been an emotional and mental drain on me – it is definitely not as easy and smooth as I had anticipated.
Just when I had begun to feel comfortable and overcome two months of culture shock, gotten close to my family, it was time to leave. I had finally discovered how to get my own breakfast, where everything in the kitchen went, to do my own laundry, etc, and had finally figured out how to navigate the maze that is my neighborhood of Sicap Baobab. I also had gotten used to having someone there all the time with whom I could express myself in English (Melanie), if I ever felt frustrated or confused. I got used to going to bed at night and being able to laugh and chat with another person I could relate to.
I know what you all are thinking. That's what study abroad is for, right? Always keeping you on your toes, and pushing you beyond your comfort level? And I wholeheartedly agree with this statement. But when you're actually experiencing this, it's different. You have a short-lived sense of accomplishment and pride, and the prospect of starting all over again with a totally new place/new people, totally alone, with no English...is frightening, to say the least.
I hung out with Antoine and his friends in Liberte 6 (another neighborhood) Saturday night, but it was a bit frustrating, because after all of his friends did the introductory, one-dimensional conversation with me in French “what's your name, what are you doing here, how long are you here, how do you like Senegal, etc”, they began to speak in rapid street Wolof. I say street Wolof, because Dakar Wolof itself is different than “pure Wolof” because it is a mix of French and Wolof...and street Wolof is a mix of French, English and Wolof slang all mixed together. (the equivalent of “ya know?” is “xam rekk” to know only). So basically the chances of me understanding what was going on was slim to none. I couldn't even interject or say anything in French, because it would have just stopped the entire conversation. So after a few hours of awkward half-interactions with Antoine's friends, and mostly just anthropological observation of how young Senegalese in their early 20's interact, I said I was tired and wanted to go home. The good thing was Antoine's best friend, Gibee (sp?), and I ganged up on him and called him a girl. It's a long story, but I had teased them about dating each other, and Gibee wanted to know who I thought was the woman in their relationship. We agreed it was Antoine for a variety of reasons, and it became this huge joke. It was fun...I bonded with one of his friends, at least.
Apparently there had been a curfew Saturday night because of the local elections, just to be on the safe side, but I hadn't been aware of it until Josh called me and asked if I was “still planning to go out,” and I replied that I already was in Liberte 6 with Antoine, and he hadn't mentioned it. When I asked Antoine about a curfew, they all assured me that it was “safe”, and that this neighborhood was “tranquille” and that there was nothing to be concerned about. Turned out they were right.
The elections itself were pretty interesting Friday and Saturday, as I walked home from the post office. I saw groups of young students, high school aged and college, walking around with signs and pamphlets, all wearing matching white shirts with Abdullaye Wade's son, Karim, on the front. The President of Senegal is not generally well-liked by his people, and is not very democratic to say the least. People here are worried their government will become even more like other corrupt African governments. Moreover, most people were not happy that Wade's son is now running for mayor – and possibly the next President in 2012. The opinion I heard about this is that the Senegalese “vont pas l'accepter.” I think you can guess what this means. The other posts that were running were local supervisors for different neighborhoods and districts, and Kelsey and Magretta's host brother was one of them. While walking toward Baobab, I saw parades of cars and decorated horse and carts, with speaker systems blaring music, and people crammed inside the carts wearing matching shirts and waving their arms. Slogans I saw were “Ecouter et Agir” (to listen and to act), “On en a marre – Osons changer” (We're sick of it...Dare to change). Pamphlets we saw being passed around even went so far as to give charts and numbers outlining how President Wade and his son Karim have stolen money from the Senegalese people, how Karim rents the entire 10th floor of a luxury hotel for him and his friends with tax money – and how Wade spends inordinate sums on the palm trees along the Corniche (the equivalent of Lake Shore Drive). Unfortunately, Melanie's Senegalese friend told her that Wade even pays certain people to vote multiple times throughout the city for his party, which is blatantly illegal and undemocratic. Of course many Senegalese I've spoken to don't even want to vote. Jean-Marie said he's not “motivated” to vote anymore, and a few of Antoine's friends said they're fed up with African politics, and they're all the same. It's understandable...I probably wouldn't want to either. The whole situation makes me so angry, considering Antoine and Kenjo waited at least 4 hours in line to vote...I can't imagine how frustrating it would be to be Senegalese. A part of me even starts to understand what drives people to violence in Africa against their governments...this story is all too familiar elsewhere. And when all official information is hidden, and any news that leaks out is either silenced (journalists imprisoned, etc), or in French like all other official business– when the vast majority of the country can't understand French, what is to be done??
The next day, Sunday, was spent packing and watching the results of Saturday night's local elections. Brendon said that when he was watching TV (I must have been in my room at this time), this man who owns three of Senegal's television channels interrupted the program to read a notice that he had received from the government, saying that all television channels would be forced to close down Monday. He said this was a breach of democracy, and was offensive, and that he would refuse to close down his channels the next day. Then, the minister of media called in and said that the notification had been false and “not notarized”. It seems a bit ridiculous that a document sent from his own ministry would not have been notarized...it was obvious the minister was lying, because they had not anticipated that the man would publicly announce it to the country, and he wanted to cover it up.
Luckily Wade's son didn't win, but according to Kelsey's host brother, the majority of politicians openly steal money...even some of the politicians he supports. Some people just accept this fact as the nature of politics. That night, Melanie and I hung out with Cathy, Keillor and Antoine. I gave the girls some of my jewelry, of which I have way too much, and they were pretty happy. It didn't really sink in that I wouldn't be seeing them for 6 weeks...and after that, simply a week....and then I would probably never see them again. It would never be the same...the routine we had all grown accustomed to was practically over.
At 6:15 Melanie and I woke up and got ready. We arranged our things, ate part of a baguette for breakfast, and left. We took a taxi to W.A.R.C. And at 7:30 everyone was packed and ready to go. We hopped into the bus and took off.
Everyone was chatting and laughing as usual, as if this was simply another MSID field trip. We ate raisin bread and a croissant for breakfast, and then oranges. I read a bit, and listened to my MP3 player. We had some pretty good discussions about 9/11 and the conspiracy theories behind it, as well as the elections. After about an hour and a half of driving, we pulled off the road (in the midst of yellowed grass and baobabs), to a tiny village with straw huts like the ones I had described in Toubacouta. This was Melanie's village, who had asked for a rural setting. She definitely got what she asked for. We all got out of the bus and followed her into the compound, through sand of course, where about 20 people had paused in their work to watch the scene. It's not every day that 14 Toubabs come into their village. The kids giggled and whispered amongst themselves, until I waved at them. They began to laugh amongst themselves, and waved back. Women stood shyly with plastic bowls on their heads, or sacks filled with grain, until some of them boldly came over and said, with a grin, in Wolof, “Nangeen def?” This was more of a challenge, instead of simply them greeting us. Even though they could say, “Bonjour, ca va?”, I've noticed a lot of Senegalese still refuse to speak French unless communication otherwise is impossible. Many times they assume we won't know what they're saying, but in a stubbornly prideful manner, they still insist on beginning in Wolof for the simple fact that THIS is their language – not French. Melanie's particular village doesn't speak French at all, except for her program director. She's actually showing a lot more courage than I would in her situation.
Melanie was led to a small hut of her own, with a curtain door. There was queen sized mattress on the floor, with pictures of Muslim Senegalese gurus on the walls. A sheet covered the ceiling, below the straw. It was pretty nice, all in all, private and comfortable.
After we said our goodbyes to Melanie, each of us giving her a hug one by one, I started to get butterflies in my stomach. It began to sink in, what was about to happen. I was next. It didn't help that as soon as we piled back into the van, Waly said, “Qui est la prochaine victime?” (Who's the next victim?)
I tried to keep my mind off what was about to happen by reading some more, but I couldn't concentrate. My stomach flipped over and over and over...I missed Dakar, my family, and what was this family going to be like? I knew nothing about it...kids? How old? What was Fatick going to be like? Were all the people going to swarm me like Melanie's village? How should I react? What if the rest of the family doesn't speak French?
The road curved slightly and I saw street lights which sprung up on either side of the road. I knew we were approaching a city. I saw palm trees and short buildings, boutiques, and eventually, we stopped in front of a one story building that was painted yellow. The van stopped, and I got out with Waly and Awa. Everyone else stayed in. The minute I stepped out of the van, the sun's heavy heat swept over me...and I realized that what everyone had said about Fatick was right...it's “chaud.” (It's 38 degrees Celsius today).
A regal woman wearing a flowing bright greenish blue boubou, about 43 years old, was waiting by the gate, smiling expectantly. It was Maman Sow (so) – my supervisor/host mom. She greeted me and led us toward the door. This wasn't the house I would be staying at, it was the mutual where I would be working. An old woman stopped me, and took my hand, on the way in, and I was forced to stop while she started the whole Wolof greeting exchange. The more Wolof salutations I answered correctly, the more she would laugh and continue to ask more. Then she threw in a Serer question, to which I had no idea what she was saying of course, and she cracked up and walked away. My heart was beating heavily in my chest with nervousness, and I was glad she had left.
We entered the building, and walked past a woman with neck length hair that had been straightened, wearing a bright lemon-yellow top and skirt Senegalese outfit. She smiled and greeted me, and we followed Madame Sow to the back room, where one computer sat, three chairs, a fan, and the door to a bathroom. We sat and Waly introduced me in Wolof, and gave Madame Sow the paperwork she would need to complete and sign. After sitting for a while, we got up and got back in the van, which drove about 30 seconds down the sand road to where Madame Sow lives.
It's a pink house with a green gate/wall in front. The front is a courtyard where the laundry lines hang, and two outhouses – one is a hole toilet, the other is a shower that has running water. Since it's so hot here, the shower is actually quite warm (which I was happy about....no more freezing Dakar showers!) The floor reminds me of Sicap Baobab – these colorful pieces of broken rocks that have been sanded down and glossed over flat, with mortar in between. Inside is this long living room with tile, and these sherbet orange and cream colored curtains that stretch from floor to ceiling and flow elegantly in the slight breeze. There is a distinctly Muslim themed embroidered tapestry which depicts Mecca over the pretty nice television. There are two chairs, and a bed in the living room against the wall, where everyone sits/eats dinner. I didn't notice a table, unlike my family in Dakar – which meant I would finally get an authentically Muslim family experience – like 90% of Senegal. This meant ataaya every day, and eating on a mat on the floor, maybe with my hands. Yes!
I used the 'toilet', and couldn't figure it out. The other four times I had used a hole, I had been wearing a skirt, by coincidence. This time I was wearing jeans, and it didn't work out too well. It's not as bad as you are probably imagining, but it's definitely something I need to learn how to master. I actually prefer the hole to a disgusting public toilet that you're forced to sit on. A hole is actually a lot cleaner than one would picture.
I wasn't feeling very well, even as everyone else oo'ed and awed over my house. I felt sort of dizzy and out of it, and my French definitely wasn't up to par. I think it was because of my nervousness.
Everyone left after a few minutes, after giving me hugs. Watching them get in the van and drive off in a cloud of dust made my stomach turn again...I was alone.
I went inside, and at 1:00 o'clock, the kids came home. There are 6 kids...the oldest is 18, named Assam. The youngest is 4, Ngonay...a little girl. The little boy who is slightly older than her, is named Seydou...he is Madame Sow's nephew. The other boy is 14 I think, and he's hit puberty...it's so cute, his voice keeps cracking. I can't remember anyone else's name....haha...they must have told me 8 times already. Once they saw me, all hell broke loose.
The little girl danced while the television played the same music station that I used to watch in Dakar, some modern Senegalese song which featured mbalax rhythms and dancing. She kept turning around to see if I was watching her. The others crowded around me and kept trying to speak Wolof. I just smiled and laughed and said, “Degguma” and “Wow” an awful lot....(I don't understand....yes...). I could say a few things like, “Fecc nga bu baax” (You dance well). But not enough to understand what they were saying. The two girls (ages 9 and 12), spoke French a bit, since they were learning it in school. The two older boys sat in the chairs, aloof, and ignored the ruckus of course, but I kept seeing them peek over. The little girl was fascinated by me, and jumped in my lap, looking at my face, and touching my hair. The other girls kept touching my hair too, saying it was so soft, and asked why I didn't have it braided. The little girl and I began to make faces at each other, while delighted her. They asked if I had a camera, which clued me in that there had been another American here. Sure enough, I was right. The little girl asked if I was going to stay with them forever now, and the others told her, “No, she's like Laura. Remember? She had to leave.” Turns out Laura was here last year, and also worked at the same Mutuelle down the street “Case Foray.”
We had ciep bu jen for lunch (rice and fish, Senegal's national dish), which I was expecting. We sat on low wooden stools on a pink sheet on the floor, with spoons. It was a deep bowl, which I wasn't used to. Even the four year old ate out of the bowl with a spoon, like everyone else, and her parents did not even watch her. I was stunned to see how her parents treated her like a little adult, in general, joking around with her, discussing with her in a very clear, matter-of-fact voice as they would with anyone else. Her mother would say simply “Kaay” (come) every once in a while to wipe off her nose and her pants if she got too dirty. Other than that, her mother didn't seem too concerned. In this way, Ngonay is a very independent, self-assured and pretty competent little four year old. When she fell down and hurt herself, no one said anything, so she got back up and kept running around. When she really started crying when her brother pretended to stab her with a knife, everyone started chuckling to themselves and said basically, “come on now, he didn't hurt you.” But her mother still accepted her into her arms when Ngonay ran over to her anyway.
I took a nap for about an hour and a half after wrestling with Ngonay and Seydou for an hour, who had followed me into my bedroom and proceeded to rummage through my stuff and steal my camera and my money. They wouldn't listen to “xaraal” (wait) and “deedet” (no), so I eventually had to get their mom, who was asleep. She shooed them out and told them to go sleep. At 4:00pm, they went back to school.
The kids got home from school again at 6:00pm. I went with the 14 year old into the market, as the sun was setting....because of the pollution in Dakar, I haven't seen a distinct sunset in a while. This one was hazy and orangy-pink, which was pretty with the silhouettes of palm trees reaching up from the street. Tons of people buzzed by in motorcycles, goats wandered around freely and Tigo shops, boutiques and even a tiny “gym” lined the streets. The market was like a mini version of HLM, more calm and less aggressive toward me. I bought a mirror and also some bananas, coconuts and oranges for the family. They were really happy about this, and divided them equally for everyone after dinner. Typically Senegalese – when I went into my room last night to go to bed; I discovered that one of the kids had snuck one of the oranges I had bought for THEM, into my room for me. How sweetJ
Went to work today and learned about the Mutuelle, but more about that tomorrow. Not sure I understand it all yet, so Ill wait until later to write.
Frustrating Problems with Measurement:
Things I always have to convert in my head:
Currency: CFA and dollars
Time: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 and then:
13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
Between Celsius and Farenheit
Sizes/height: Inches/Centimetres
Distance: Miles/Kilometers
Quantity: Pounds/Kilos
Why can't the U.S. just switch over to the systems of measurement EVERYONE ELSE USES??? It would make traveling SO much easier......!!!
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