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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