More Fatick adventures

This is a continuation from the last post...which I never finished.

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All the sudden these two neighbor girls came into the kitchen from next door, and Roquaya said excitedly, “These are the girls that have CATS at their house!!” I was like, “Oh really?” I was picturing the adorable tiny kittens at the market in Capskirring...and my eyes lit up. They're like, “They want you to come over and see the cats.” “When, now?” “yes!” So I was like, sure why not.
I followed them out the side door, and entered the house next door.
When I arrived at the house next door, I saw about 20 kids and a few older women standing in the front area of the house, excitedly staring at me. They were obviously from all over the neighborhood and had heard that a Toubab was coming over to see the “muus”. (cat).
I didn't see the cat right away, instead I saw a baby goat with diarrhea and said “da fa feebar” (it's sick) but no one seemed to know what I talking about. Then all the sudden, I spotted a cat. Not a kitten, but a small kitten under a nearby chair, practically shaking with fright – I don't blame him, I would have been too. The kids were screaming amongst themselves, and finally one reached under the chair and pulled the cat out by its hind legs. I cringed, and said, “no no...bahul...” (No, that's bad), but they didn't seem to listen. Instead, they threw the cat into my arms.
For all of you Americans who know what happens when you freak out an animal with claws, when you're not “gentle” and “nice,” obviously the cat scratched the hell out of me and jumped out of my arms. He plunged to the cement floor and attempted to run up the stairs, and screeched when one of the kids grabbed it again. Knowing this would be a futile attempt – that you can't force an animal to be ok with being petted, especially when there was this type of situation. I said, “This won't work...there needs to be only one or two people, in silence. There can't be all this noise.” The kids just laughed and didn't listen. Who knows if they even understood me.
“Maangi dem,” I said, and I walked out the door. I didn't want the cat to be tortured anymore on my account. I was soon to see that even though I walked away, it didn't prevent the cat from being maltreated.
I heard another scream – the sound Timbre (our old cat) used to make when I would grab her tail to prevent her from running away from her. There's only one sound like that in the world. I knew immediately someone had the cat by the tail...
It was true. Modou, my host brother had the cat by its tail, and was swinging it around, smiling. The cat was screaming it's heat off, and all the kids were skipping beside him happily. I started screaming in English, in my shock, “Put the cat down!! No!! Not by its tail!! PUT IT DOWN!!” But of course no one understood my English and just started laughing....it was as if someone was speaking gibberish.
At that point I snapped. I couldn't understand how no one taught their kids that it was wrong to hurt a cat...or did he even know that it was hurting it? Who knows...
I started to walk away, when I realized that all the kids were following me. At that point I couldn't hold back my tears and started screaming, “Bayyi ma, demleen!!!” (Leave me alone, go away!” Eventually they realized I was serious, and walked away slowly.
I found a tree in the “petit savanne” near my house, in the shade, and the goats scattered, terrified of me. I sat there for a long time, brooding, hating everyone here...wondering why it was so different in the States, which was normal...should we be so close to animals? It isn't natural....putting clothes on dogs? Treating animals like our children? Dressing them up in Superbowl costumes and having puppies climb on each other on national television? Having them sleep on our bed?
One thing was clear...swinging them around by their tails is also not right. I'm not sure if I mentioned this before, but Vanessa's friend in St. Louis (north of Dakar) saw some little kids on a nearby rooftop stoning a tiny kitten to death while the parents nonchalantly chatted nearby.



Ok so I haven't written in a long time, but I guess I'll just pick up where I left off. Ngone and I, the mother of Seydou, got pretty close in her being here. We were in the habit of taking walks every night after dinner, and chatting. She told me about how she was married before, to the father of Seydou, and how she was the second wife. Polygamy is a fact of life here, especially among the older generation (our parents). It is not uncommon at all, especially outside of Dakar – and the only reason it isn't that popular in Dakar is because city-life is expensive – because it is a sign of a man's wealth if he has a lot of wives and children. Also, there is a lot of work to be done, and more wives=more hands
in the work. Us Americans have sort of come to the conclusion that it now plays more of a role in a man's ego, than having a practical use. The grandparents' generation also puts a lot of pressure on their children to have multiple wives. The first wife always makes the decisions and manages all household affairs, as well as gerate the problems between the other wives. She is the most respected, usually the one true love of the husband, although usually the oldest.
Therefore second wives like Ngone play second-fiddle and are usually shouldered out of important matters. She said that every time they went to Dakar, the first wife would go with the husband to family affairs/parties, and she wouldn't go...she would stay with her sister. Basically she felt three was a crowd. He also didn't work, and sucked up all of Ngone's income. Therefore, she divorced him....divorce is not preferable, but allowed in Islam.
On our walks, she confided in me about her life as a single 34 year old woman in Senegal, and her two lovers. One is a wealthy older man (by 15 years) who already has two wives, but it “madly in love with her”. He's always giving her gifts and paying for things. The other lover is an unmarried younger man of her own age, and apparently they really love each other. He's leaving for Italy soon and wants to marry her, and take her with. She's not sure if she wants to leave Senegal, and her entire family behind.
She told me the story of Cheikh Amadou Bamba, the Senegalese marabou for whom the Magal in Touba is celebrated. Apparently as a baby (earlier than the age a child talks), told his mother that there was danger ahead, and that she had to be careful. She put him down and continued ahead, and sure enough “she sensed danger”. That's where the story ended. It was then that they knew that Cheikh Amadou Bamba was a prophet of sorts (although officially Mohammed was the last prophet). As is tradition in Senegal, since the Marabou does nothing all day except pray (theoretically), all Cheikh Amadou Bamba's followers gave him their extra money so he could eat and feed his family. This upset the French colonial authorities, because when they came around to collect taxes, the people didn't have any money left – because the people had given it all to Bamba.
The French decided to exile Cheikh Amadou Bambo to Gabon. They took him on a ship, and on the way, they relentlessly teased him about his “mystical powers,” and challenged him to prove it. So he stepped out onto the ocean, and on the water, a “tapis” or prayer mat, suddenly appeared under his feet. It floated on the water, and he began to pray. The French were “etonés!” and couldn't believe their eyes. This was enough for them to allow Bamba to come back...I think that's how the story ends. But no one can explain to me why this miracle hasn't spread to other Islamic societies, for example, in the Middle East or America. I've never heard of this anywhere else but Senegal. But it's accepted fact.
Anyway, we talked and talked...and she gave me her silver ring...real silver, as a gift. I had nothing really to give her, but the only thing she asked for was a picture. I printed out a bunch of the pictures I had taken while she was here, and she took those. I think when I go home I want to send the family something else, and I want to send her something...as USB key and some Pantene ProV shampoo (she said my hair smelled good, and you can't buy it her).
On the 4th of April, she took me into “centre ville” for the parade (defilé). I was shocked to hear that Antoine's family in Dakar, as well as my family here in Fatick, do not go to the parade for Independence Day. They watch the Dakar parade on television. But I wanted to go see the parade.
So Ngone put on a beautiful purple boubou, and I put on my Senegalese ensemble that I had made in Dakar, and we went downtown. All the different parade group participants were waiting patiently and silently in formation as we made our way toward the front of the parade where tents were set up. Of course the only other 4 Toubabs in Fatick had private invitations to sit above the crowd in chairs under the tent. I preferred being among the other spectators in the crowd. The parade started with a 15 minute long introduction in Frolof (that's French and Wolof), talking about how great Senegal is and how they've found their identity in these 49 years after independence. Then the parade started, with the announcers introducing each group: the military, the “anciens combattants,” (the veterans), and a ton of kids groups – religious school, karate, dance groups, etc. My host sisters Rockaya and Penda were in the parade, and I took a picture of them. There was even the town veterinarian, complete with the largest mouton (sheep) I've ever seen, as well as the largest cow in the best shape. Of course these veterinarians don't work with dogs/cats, the typical animals we would think of...only goats, sheep, cows, and donkeys. There was a ton of pride and excitement at the parade, and I kept getting pushed backward into the crowd, to the great annoyance of Ngone - “Toubab le, menul gis! Warr na wax wa keur am ne gis na fii Senegal!” (She's a toubab, she has to tell her family what she's seen here in Senegal). It was truly a lot like parades in the United States, except for the fireworks.
The parade in Dakar was definitely bigger, showing off the best military equipement. The tanks in Fatick looked more like blown up versions of children's toys...they were definitely not top quality.

I was really happy because two weeks ago my internship started picking up. Instead of just sitting in the office doing transactions every time a woman came to reimburse a loan, we started visiting the neighboring villages which make up the arondissements for which we're responsible in Fatick. The first visit we took was to Niakhar, which was because the women there didn't have the means to travel to Fatick to reimburse their loans. We sat down in the courtyard of the mutuelle on some old wooden benches under the shade of a tree. And waited. It took several hours because the women didn't have “appointments” (ha! This is Senegal....). I think they were aware that we would be there between the approximate hours of 10:00am and 2:00pm...so they just sort of showed up whenever between those hours. They always were delighted when I actually responded to the Wolof...some people tried to say “Bonjour Madame, ca va,” the way they would have greeted colonial people....with respect, but of course because French people don't speak Wolof. They were shocked when I responded in Wolof. Unfortunately for me, they tried to talk to me in Serer, but I kept saying, “Menuma wax Serer...am na jafe-jafe ak Wolof!” (I can't speak Serer...I have enough problems with Wolof!”) Then came the questions about me having a husband, to which I responded.. “Amuma jot pur jeker...etudiant laa.” (I don't have time for a husband, I'm a student). This was a sufficient response, and of course made everyone laugh because husbands here are like having children....because they don't do anything to help.
While we were sitting there, Mama Sanu was doing all the work...so I started daydreaming and looking around. There was a bone-skinny horse (like all of them here), who had been tied up and was eating feed out of a sack attached to the wagon. He was a beautiful auburn color and shone in the sunshine that filtered down through the small tree above him. I took out my notebook and quickly sketched him. Everyone was really impressed and demanded that I pass around my notebook.
We also did a visit to Diakhaw a few days later. This consisted of passing out various sized portions of a 30,000,000CFA loan from PDIF (the NGO that gives out credit to women here). I filled out half the paperwork and managed the signatures. It was actually pretty interesting, and it seemed like the other half of all the process finally made sense, as Mame Sanu explained how many months the women had to pay back their loans. The women who were there were the Presidents and Vice-Presidents of each women's group, about 50 in all. Most of them were illiterate, which sort of worried me when they signed a circle or an X or a scribble – which is sufficient for a signature – on documents that they couldn't read. Theoretically Mame Sanu was explaining it all to them in Serer or Wolof, but who knows? I couldn't understand everything she said.
That took us until 3:30 – so we missed lunch by an hour and a half. Of course we would still eat when we got home, but Yaay bought a package of grilled random meat chunks (some liver too), with onions and mustard from the djibiterie. However when I looked around for somewhere to wash my hands, someone came over and gave me a large plastic cup with water and said, “Raxasal,” (wash your hands). Later I realized she was joking because she didn't think I understood the word for “to wash your hands”, because as soon as I took the cup and proceeded to stick my hands in to wash them, everyone started hooting and laughing. I said, “Lan? Elle a dit “Raxasal!!” “Non! C'est pour boire!!” (No! It's for drinking!!”) Well how was I supposed to know that??? I laughed too, but I was slightly irritated. No one tells me anything until I do something wrong, and then everyone thinks its hysterical. But I definitely let it roll of my shoulders...I've learned to be really flexible and roll with the punches after being in Senegal this long. I'm used to the high probability every day that I will make a fool of myself. And I'm ok with that:)
I remember thinking to myself how comfortable I felt with these women, with this sort of work. I laughed, I talked, I was courageous, and I did not feel strange or awkward at all. All of this has become familiar; the women's facial expressions, their mannerisms, their gests, their voice intonations, their habits (like chewing on sticks), and the different ways to make a mousor (head scarf). They are pleasant, strong, and articulate. Especially Yaay. She is so sharp...she notices the smallest details, and has a way of convincing everyone in the room what she's talking about. She captivates everyone's attention when she takes the floor in a way I've never seen before. Everyone gives her the utmost attention...it must be the way she speaks, she is an expert people-person. It's really neat to watch. I am proud to walk around with her.
Two weeks ago, I went to the “Conseil Regional de Fatick,” (Regional Counsel of Fatick), for a meeting with a French organization that also gives financing and also gives money specifically for environmental projects. I went in with a pretty negative attitude from the start, I have to be honest. I am sick and tired of the French people down here, as I've described before. I remembered the attitude of the French students and their leaders, and how Westerners think they have the right to stick their fingers in everyone's business and run things. It's one thing to work on micro finance – giving people the means to help themselves, the means to come up with their own project ideas....because they, alone, truly understand their environment and their society – its another to control what they do with that money, because Toubabs somehow, as usual, know better than the Africans.
We arrived at the conseil at 10:00 am, with people milling around as usual, in their best suits or boubous. It was colorful, exciting, people talking everywhere. Some student art group had displayed some really interesting, original artwork in the foyer, with the prices listed. Some French people had arrived there early, with their sunglasses on, not talking to anyone, arms crossed. People outside played the tam-tam/dembe and women danced and sang. Inside Yaay was sitting, talking passionately with some other women she knew. The place slowly filled up, and after I will I couldn't sit in there with Yaay anymore because it was too hot. I waited by the door, and watched people filter in. I saw Jessica, one of the year-long MSID students who is living in Tattaguine – one of the regional towns of Fatick, in a tiny village. She shares her room with 6 other people.
However, at 12:30 the meeting still hadn't started. Finally, around 1:00, there was more hustle and bustle, and a man with a violin made out of an old cookie tin started playing. Suddenly there “she' was, the President of this organization, who's picture was everywhere which I found a bit egotistical. Sengolene Royale – what kind of a last name is that?? - sat down at the table in front of the room, smiling, proudly displaying her Senegalese outfit. I just sat there resenting her. She's trying too hard, I thought, and who does she think she is, with that fake smile plastered on her face? Her French was perfect and enunciated and, well....French. I realized I preferred the clearer, more relaxed accent of Senegal.
Before she could even speak, the Senegalese around her with their Western suits and glasses, began to praise her in their best French – accents that I was sure they didn't use elsewhere. Someone had already introduced her in Wolof, saying “Dafa rafet rafet rafet, “She's beautiful, beautiful, beautiful”. Some intro. The French wasn't much better, for at least 20 minutes they praised this woman...how great, how kind, how she's helped the people of Fatick. I guess some of it was warranted, but I really hated the look on her face, and her assistant beside her. All her journalists, and TV5, a French television station, and cameras and microphones were crowding around her...obviously to televise back in France what she was doing here in Africa. It just seemed so overdone...and I wasn't expecting a “development meeting” to be simply a session of praise for the President. It seemed unnecessary. And after all those hours of waiting...for this? I waited for the introduction to be over, and for the real participative discussion to begin...but it never did. Once they were done praising her, and she took the stage to say how pleased she was with the progress of the projects, etc, and how pleased she was to work with the Senegalese again...the meeting was over. She kept trying to catch my eye...I was kind of conspicuous in the crowd as one of two Toubab's. I refused to smile back...yea...I know, sort of bitchy...but I'm not sure if I've made it clear how much I hate the French at this point...and their arrogant, condescending, patronizing idea of humanitarian work.
After the meeting, Yaay and I ditched the crowd to drive home and eat lunch. I was starving. Afterward, she called someone to see what was going on – apparently Sengolene Royale was going to do site visits to see how to projects were coming along. The projects she was funding. Of course everyone was going to go with her, with tons of pomp and circumstance. Turns out we were late....we jumped in the car again and sped down the road toward a neighboring village. Everyone was inside a tent, talking to Sengolene Royale. All the villagers were around. There was a pen with a bunch of goats...which was strange to me, seeing goats that were confined. Other goats that were not part of the insemination exchange between France and Senegal, wandered outside the cage, baaing in confusion to their friends inside, as if to say...”what are you doing in there? Come on out!” The project was to improve the genetic line of goats in Fatick to become stronger, larger, and have more meat. The goats here are tiny...which is why I thought the sheep were goats. Now I know that sheep are much larger than goats. The cows are the same thing, they are natural sized...their shoulders probably come up to mine...that's it. If it weren't for their menacing horns that could impale me with little or no effort, these cows would not be intimidating in the least big. Not like cows are intimidating in the U.S. either... I guess I mean to say the cows here, despite their smaller size, are scary.
We continued on to see a frommagerie, where they were making goat cheese, nearby. This was also being financed by Sengolene Royale's organization. A old woman greeted the enormous crowd, topless, with her breasts danging to her waist. The French people seemed really uncomfortable by this, and didn't even look at her. I waved, and greeted her in Wolof. The cheese was delicious. As we left the house compound, donkeys scattering in our path, a girl was in the corridor between the buildings, filling a plastic cup with water...each person as they passed would down the water in one gulp, as not to hold up the crowd, and give it back to the girl....who would refill the cup for the next person. It was really hot, I was thankful to have it.
We then saw the 'official' example of the solar ovens, which Sengolene Royale was also sponsoring. As they proudly introduced them to the camera, I bit my tongue. These representations had to cost at least double the ones that I had seen at the patisserie. Perhaps they worked better, but there was no way in hell that any of the women in Fatick would be able to afford an oven like the one they were showing off. I really wanted to ask some of my questions that I had been wondering about the practicality of the oven...but there was too much commotion, and this was not the place for questions. This was the place for Sengolene Royale to show off.
The next weekend when I went to Dakar and showed Antoine my photos, he was excited to see a picture of Sengolene Royale. “Is that Sengolene Royale?!” He exclaimed. “Yes...” I said. “What a last name, huh?” “That woman could have been the President of the Republic of France! She ran in the last elections!! Didn't you know? She lost to Sarkozy!” I stared blankly. “You didn't know that?? Wow...you were that close? You got pictures?” Oops....wasn't aware of this little fact. “She was born in Dakar...that's why she's so interested in Senegal. She's a great woman. You're lucky to have had the chance...almost...to meet her.” Ha...kind of embarrassing.
To make matters worse, I realized I has unfairly judged her as somehow having ordered all the pomp and circumstance. Like...her being French had made everyone behave in this way. This was not at all the case. When I asked Yaay why everyone was treating her like a Queen, she said, “Well because she's helped the people of Fatick enormously. We want to show our gratitude...that's Senegalese custom, to go overboard for guests. We always o everything in our power to make a guest feel welcome here. That may not be the way we'd be received in France, but its our custom.” So it was the Senegalese, showing their gratitude. I had no idea if Sengolene Royale would have preferred less of a show...maybe she would have! I really have no idea. I guess I would have went along with it too, in her position, had it been me...even though I probably still would have felt uncomfortable by all the attention. But if that's the Senegalese choosing to behave that way, that has nothing to do with her. She really is a great person...I realized...and they were really good, sustainable projects going on. I felt really guilty about misjudging her. Not all French people are the same.

I had a very sobering experience last Thursday, when we went to the village of Ndiemou. It's 7 kilometers from Fatick, and in the Communaute Rural de Niakhar. It's a tiny village where two women's groups have merged together to form one, to better collaborate and combine resources. Their slogan is “Mbokatoor Roxo Naak -Unis contre la Pauvreté » I'm pretty sure you can figure out what that means from the French.
They do three main activities; salt production from the local natural salt wells in the area, millet production, and managing the local preschool (children ages 1-6). We waited at the Case for the women from the village who were going to show us the way, and off we went around 10:00am. After driving over a desolate, sandy, empty, vast terrain over a path that was barely visible, we arrived in a tiny village. Of course children surrounded the car with questioning eyes, and a little boy reached out and stroked my arm. I laughed and shook their hands, which made them smile.
They used to do millet by hand, and now again are forced to do it by hand because the machine they had been financed to purchase was old and broke soon thereafter. Making millet is hard work. It grows on stalks, and you have to get it off the stalk one at a time, and then put it in a pile and morter, and cram it down until its nearly a powder. It's then used to make couscous. From what I heard about this financing to buy the machine in the first place was a bit sketchy: it was a European NGO that only agreed to finance them for the millet machine, if EACH WOMAN gave them 100 sacs of salt, which they turned around and sold for double the profit – and did not give the women any of the extra proceeds. So basically, the way I understood this, was that the women could have sold the salt themselves, made a profit AND bought the machine....without the need of this NGO playing the middle man. Oh well...not all international development work is in the best interest of the people. Sometimes they just try to take advantage of their position, seeing it as an easy business opportunity.
Then we went to the Case des Tous Petits. The kids went crazy when I walked in the door, and I shook each of their hands, and they curtsied as they've all been taught to do. Apparently, the government of Senegal had given the town 22,000,000CFA to construct the school. It was supposed to be enough for electricity, learning materials, books, etc. But more than half that money never arrived. The instructor took us into his office to tell us all of this, while the kids peered in through the windows at us. There is no electricity, no solar panels, nothing. And there is not enough money for the kids' learning supplies. When I asked where the money went, Yaay and the instructor exchanged knowing looks, and smiled. “That's the question we ask ourselves,” Yaay responded. Later she told me this is a fact of life in Senegal. This corruption is something people here have come to expect, and even come to live with. Somebody somewhere decided that half that amount was more than enough to build a school, and he pocketed the rest...and he had enough friends in high places, so that no one asked any questions. And there's nothing anyone can do about it now. So now, it's the woman's group who have to use some of their hard-earned resources to provide for the school; to manage it, to train employees, to find financing for books, meals for the kids, etc. So the already impoverished women have to figure out how to do a job that's the States' responsibility. That's life here.
Then we found our way into an old barn, where long wooden benches had been set up. We were early for some meeting. There were three men in there, Senegalese, but obviously from Dakar. They were dressed in suits, with a high-tech tape recorder, files, nice pens, sunglasses, with big smiles on their faces. I guessed right away that they were Senegalese employees for some foreign NGO...I learned later that I was right. I was just really confused why they were there. I was really tired that day (I hadn't slept much the night before because the goat we had bought the day before was crying all night long, and it sounded like a child)...and when they barraged me with Wolof, laughing when I didn't understand, I was not happy. I was sick and tired of never knowing what was going on, and people laughing at my expense. Yea, for those of you who know me...when I'm tired, I get kind of cranky:) Usually I would have taken this with good humor.
Anyway, Yaay asked me accusingly why I wasn't asking questions, in the middle of their rapid Wolof. So I boldly said, “Qui etes-vous?” (Who are you guys?) They laughed, and said, “We work for the Canadian NGO called MI. We deal with nutrition-related projects here, with the same woman's group that you work with. It's a coincidence that our evaluational meeting is set for the same day as you. We had no idea you would be here the same day.” Great planning! I laughed in my head.
But of course this NGO gives way more money than our little mutuelle in Fatick, so these men pretty much took over the meeting. After a while, about 50 people showed up...men too. Apparently the men benefit from MI's financing, but they do not benefit from Case Foyer (our mutuelle)'s financing. The entire meeting was in Wolof, with the businessmen from Dakar passing around the digital recorder to each of the villagers as they talked. I had the worst heat headache, was tired, and hadn't drank enough...and was feeling really sick. The fact that I had no idea what was going on for more than an hour and a half was more than slightly unbearable. I eventually went outside and called Henry, thankful to hear someone who speaks my own language.
Yaay caught me up...sort of...on what the meeting was about. Basically it was just to find out what the women were doing with the money, if the money was enough, and if they were having any difficulties – to see if they would continue financing projects, etc. Apparently Yaay liked what she heard, and was planning to keep financing them. However, evidentially when Yaay took the floor during the meeting, she had said something about Case Foyer only working only with woman; which is true, it's in our rules. Usually Senegalese men do not like this idea in the least bit. The idea of not only helping women to take independent financial risks, be financially self-sufficient, but of excluding men from these same opportunities? Even when we tell them that men tend to reimburse only about 30% of the time...and the things they spend money on include more wives and cigarettes, they still feel jealous. Yaay got a call a few days later by one of the male villagers who had been at this meeting. He yelled at her for more than 20 minutes about what she said, that he was “not pleased” that our mutuelle excludes men. He didn't like what she said, because it would mean that the women would become indepdent, and would no longer depend on their husbands. She said, “I'm sorry, but this is the point of our organization. This is exactly what I want. I want to give women the opportunity to pull themselves our of their situations, despite of and without the necessity of their husbands.” Needless to say, he wasn't happy about this either.
On a reimbursement trip to Tattaguine the other day, I saw Jessica at her mutuelle. It's like ours, but smaller. We drove a few minutes away, and I saw her village, met her family, mainly because there was a tiny baby who had been born 3 days earlier and I got to hold him. So cute...they were surprised by how excited I was. I didn't think about it, but because families are so small in the United States, the last time I really interacted with a baby that small was when Kara was born – but that wasn't often, and usually babies that are only a couple days old are hidden away from the world for fear of germs. Parents in the States tend to be overly paranoid. I've learned here that babies aren't as fragile as everyone thinks they are. Babies here are a fact of life. I don't even really remember when Beka was a baby, and of course she doesn't have any little siblings to relate to either. I kind of like big families. Abdoullaye is right...small families can be lonely. He couldn't understand how my parents can live, just the two of them, in the house. He is convinced this is dangerous..if one person is sick and the other person isn't home, for example, what happens? (You take care of yourself...and if its an emergency, call a friend or a neighbor). This wasn't a satisfactory answer.
There are certain aspects of family life that are strikingly different...literally. The amount of hitting and lack of comfort is startling. The kids hit each other, even from an early age...Marie Gabrielle is already starting to hit everyone else. The parents hit the kids, and I mean hard. Usually the kids get along, but they have really low tolerance, and little or no patience when someone is being greedy, whiny, or making trouble. Everyone usually is really goofy and silly. But, for example, the other day “Pap Sow” (the nephew of Abdoullaye, with his same name), who is nearly 2, was over at the house. He is a tiny little boy, shy, and follows the other kids around. He is adorable. No one cuddles with him, not even Yaay, no one pays him any more attention than the others. Sometimes I grab him and put him on my lap, and he curls up on my chest and plays with my jewelry.
The other day, his father, another Modou, left to go home. They had been visiting, and apparently Pap Sow was going to stay and have dinner. No one explained this to him, and he started bawling. He screamed and cried, with real tears, and a terrified expression on his little face. Modou (my host brother) took Pap Sow onto his lap, but didn't really comfort him...he just laughed. After about 15 of straight crying, Abdoullaye got annoyed. He broke a small stick/grass thing off our tree, and came over. I thought he was just threatening Pap Sow with it, like he usually does during a meal if someone is being whiny...it usually works. But little Pap Sow couldn't stop crying, even when Abdoullaye yelled at him in Wolof and brandished the stick. So Abdoullaye swiftly struck him in the arm. Startled, Pap Sow jumped and swallowed his crying for a second in surprise. He held his arm and looked up at Abdoullaye. I could feel a scream coming, because I knew it hurt. But when he was about to let one rip, Abdoullaye held up the stick again, like “You know what's going to happen if you cry again.” Pap Sow's mouth quivered, and he stopped crying immediately.
I couldn't handle this. I waited until the attention was shifted, and I motioned for little Pap Sow to come over. I put him on my lap and cuddled with him, wiping away his tears. Then I decided he needed to get his mind off his dad, and get out of the house. I asked if I could go to the boutique to get some drinks for the family, and if I could bring Pap Sow. They didn't see why I wanted to bring him, but said yes.
I walked with Pap Sow, who was quiet, but was no longer crying, holding his hand as his little feet carried him through the sand through the darkness. We made it to the boutique, and I bought two Ananas (carbonated pineapple drink), and Fanta Orange. I picked him up to let him peer into the refrigerator. I gave him one of the Ananas to carry, to make him feel useful, like he had a job to do and was being helpful. I don't know why I thought of this, but it made him feel better immediately. He had a little spring in his step, and held it long ways, like a baby, because the bottle was almost as big as he was. He held it very carefully, with his tongue sticking out in concentration. At one point he said, “Da fa sedd torop,” (It's too cold), and I held it for him. But then after a few minutes, he held out his hands again, to carry it. “Goor goor lu,” I said, meaning, 'you're strong' (literally means man-man).
When Pap Sow entered the house, carrying an Ananas, everyone clapped and laughed. It was quite a silly sight because like I said, he's almost as small as the bottle itself. He proudly followed me into the kitchen, where I put the drinks into the fridge. He was satisfied, and back to his old self, playing with the other kids. Abdoullaye watched me from across the room, a grin on his face, and told Yaay in Wolof (but I understood) that I was a nice girl to take Pap Sow to the boutique to make him feel better.

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Last weekend, for Easter, 7 of us went back to Dakar including Melanie and I. I got in Friday night, and she got in at noon on Saturday. It was an interesting weekend...emotionally charged with many ups and downs. I took a 7-place from the “gare routiere” in Fatick, which is where all the buses and public transportation arrive and leave from. For 2,500 Cf a (or 5 dollars), I went 3 hours from Fatick to Dakar.
Since it's a 7 place, there were 6 other people in the car. I tried to sleep, but remembered that public transportation here is not like the United States. Just because you've never before in your life seen the other passengers, doesn't mean you don't act like best friends. Everyone was talking, jabbering, laughing excitedly. Finally, they turned their attention to me. For the next 2 ½ hours, I spoke to everyone about life in the United States, and how it isn't necessarily “paradise,” and how life is hard there too. We talked about cultural differences, and what I like about Senegal. We talked about religion, etc. It was actually pretty fascinating. When we got to Dakar, the guy who had basically been leading the discussion because he talked a lot, took my phone number. He seemed normal, that's why I gave it to him. Also, I don't know if I've mentioned before, but giving out phone numbers is no big deal here...people ask for people's numbers after the first 10 minutes of chatting...even between guys, or girls. We've realized it's sort of considered rude NOT to ask for a stranger's phone number after you've been talking....otherwise, it sort of means, “I don't want to have a way to talk to you again.”
But this guy called me half an hour later to tell me he was in love with me, and that he's never met anyone like me, my beauty and intelligence had caused love at first sight. He said it was urgent that he see me before I return to Fatick the following Monday. I said I would think about it, and obviously had no intention of doing so.
I took a taxi from the Gare Routiere for 2,000 Cfa (4 dollars), to Sicap Baobab. Driving through Dakar was giving me the willies...it is so different from Fatick. My three weeks in Fatick had gotten me used to a slower, more relaxed-pace life, where people acknowledge each other's existence, and with a lot less people around in general. Dakar was noisy, dirty, polluted and congested. We drove by the slums, which I hadn't yet seen...I had only seen pictures of these dwellings in my classes at U of I. For those who aren't familiar, in the developing world, major cities have become the only place to go if you want work. Staying in rural villages have resulted in unemployment and poverty. So millions of people have started a “rural exodus,” also known as “urbanization,” moving into the cities. Since these are poor people, they don't have enough money for proper housing, and there are too many people for the cities to accommodate them. Therefore, “the slums” are growing in nearly every major city in the world. (China and India built walls around them, China for the Olympics.) The slums consist of common water sources which are often pollution, shared toilet facilities which are usually not taken care of, and tiny dwellings made out of scrap materials (metal, wood, sheets), etc. They are crowded, and disease often spreads easily throughout them. Most of the rural villages I've visited in Senegal are overwhelmingly female, especially during the dry season. The men live and work in Dakar or other major cities, and return during the rainy season, or “l'hivernage”, to work the fields during the harvest.
It was strange to get out of the taxi at Sicap Baobab. In a way I felt like I was coming home, but no one acknowledged me. I guess I wouldn't expect them to...but people in Fatick know me by name already. I had become accustomed to that. I found our old house, and knocked on the door, my heart beating. “Ki kan la.” I heard from behind the door “Who is it.” Leontine opened the door, and said, “Oh, it's Danielle.” She opened the door wider, and turned around to walk in. I followed her, and hugged her saying, “Leontine, ca va?” “Ca va.” She responded. She didn't ask how my trip was, where Melanie was, or anything. I was really taken aback, but continued; “So you're the only one home? Where is everyone?” “At Church.” Then I remembered it was Good Friday. “Oh yea...but you stayed home?” Yes.”
I got the impression she didn't really want to talk to me. She started to walk into the living room. I asked if we were going to stay in the same bedroom we had when we lived here. Instead of answering this question, she said sharply, “I don't know why you and Melanie left some of your stuff here. We have guests when you're not here.” The thing is, Waly had said that usually people leave most of their things at their family's house in Dakar – since we stay there the last week of the semester, and our internships are only 6 weeks. Melanie and I assumed our family would be keeping the room for us until we got back...considering the ENTIRE THIRD FLOOR is full of empty rooms. How many French people did they have?? We had forgotten to discuss this, however, with Leontine and Ignace – which was completely our fault. I apologized to her (we had been in a rush the weekend between Casamance and leaving for our internships, and had forgotten to talk about it).
The point is, I wasn't sure why this was the first thing Leontine said when we walked in the door. It was as if she wanted nothing to do with me.
I walked upstairs with my backpack, and found that the room was empty. All of our stuff had been collected and thrown into the tiny spare bedroom at the end of the hall. There were no sheets on the beds, to top it off. We had called two weeks in advance to make sure we could stay at the house for Easter, and Ignace had said that this wasn't a problem. Apparently they had been busy/forgotten/or just didn't think we were worth the effort.
Antoine went and brought sheets up for me, and told his mom that there weren't any on Melanie's bed either. She didn't have sheets until Saturday after dinner.
This made me upset because I know that whenever there were French visitors staying in the house, the entire day before everyone would go crazy cleaning and making sure everything was in order. The French people would even eat different/better food than everyone else, in a different room with the parents. This means sheets on the bed as well. But for some reason, since the MSID students were back during a weekend that wasn't payed for by MSID – we were technically supposed to be in Fatick, with our new families – the Diatta's didn't feel the need to accommodate us anymore. They barely made enough extra food for us. It consisted of plain pasta and tiny, slightly burned fish with yassa sauce.
This is ridiculous, because this is contrary to everything I know about Senegalese culture...and the other students that came back for the weekend from MSID were treated with excitement and enthusiasm when they returned – they got much more than sheets, attention, questions, and happiness to see them again. I am sure it's about the money. But how did they know Melanie and I couldn't give them any money for that weekend? I was considering it...but after the way we were treated...unappreciated, ignored, and acting like we were a burden....why would we pay for that? Every time we went out that weekend, we tried to tell Leontine where we were going...and she ignored us. As if she couldn't care less. I tried to talk to her about my experience buying chicken in Fatick, and she went “Humph,” and didn't look away from her television show.
Ignace asked some questions about “the regions,” asking the same sort of ignorant, stereotypical questions that certain Americans asked me before I went to Senegal. “Do they have electricity there? (Melanie's village doesn't, except for one house, where everyone in the village goes at night to watch tv or listen to the radio). What do you eat for breakfast – couscous? Haha, that's all they eat in the villages!! (Oh...you eat bread, just like Dakar.) Oh you live in a Muslim family? They must be fanatics. Well, it's good that you're experiencing it, I suppose.” At least he was curious. Kenjo asked some questions too, and seemed mildly interested, but didn't invite me out at all to hang out. Jean-Marie and Cathy were M.I.A. as usual, but mainly Leontine was just a *itch.
Melanie refused to pay, and I could see her point. We sat and tried to figure out what makes the house in Dakar different from a hotel – and we couldn't figure it out. We don't know why...the only reason we can think of, is after 10+ years of having American students pass in and out...I'm sure more than a couple have left a negative impression, and ALL have neglected to keep contact after they leave. We're sure that they just don't see the point in trying to get close/get to know us anymore. After all these years, they're burned out, unimpressed, uninterested, and see us basically as a business transaction – a source of income. They're retired after all. They don't get out of it anything anymore, besides money. Which is why Melanie and I are going to tell Waly to put this family on hold for a few rounds of students...they either need a break, or they need to stop hosting students altogether. They are a horrible representation of Senegalese culture, and if it wasn't for Kenjo, Jean-Marie and Antoine...Melanie and I would have really been disappointed with our time there.
That night Antoine and I hung out with his friends, and Saturday during the day Josh, Henry, Magretta, Kelsey, Melanie and I went to one of the markets. It was the same market that we had gone to with Kenjo for the vegetables that one time we cooked dinner. I bought tiny bracelets for my host siblings in Fatick, as well as a gift for Poonam. That night we were supposed to go out for my birthday, but Magaretta and Henry fell asleep, and Kelsey was hanging out with her Senegalese boyfriend all night. Oh well, the night started out well, with Josh, Melanie, Coyne and I...and Jenna from the Wells Program, at Oasis. It was actually really fun, and Josh bought me Gazelles, which I had missed immensely. I haven't drank anything since I've been in Fatick.
Then Josh went home because he was tired, and Melanie fell asleep at the house. Antoine brought me to a party that him and his friends were hosting in an abandoned house in the “quartier,” down the street. Everyone was dancing, to some of my favorite Senegalese dance music that I've heard here. Antoine bought me drinks, which means a lot for him because Senegalese students literally have no money. There is no such thing as a “part time job” for students, because unemployment is so high. And parents don't give allowance. It was a really great time, with Antoine and his best friend Jiby.
Sunday, we realized that French people were supposed to arrive at 5:00pm, so we were supposed to be out of the house before then. No one had told us this, we had thought we were staying until Monday (since the day after Easter is a national holiday, and none of us had class or work). Oh well...Antoine and Ignace took Melanie and I to the Dakar Gare Routiere to find a 7-place to take us back to Fatick/Sesene. We went back together in the same car, and Melanie got out before me at Sesene. It worked out nicely. I had all Monday, therefore, to work on some of our papers we had to do. It all worked out.



So I suppose I'll talk a bit about the guy thing here. I know you all are simply going to roll your eyes at this one, and say, how can this be a problem? Me being told that guys “hit on you a lot,” and are a lot more blatant and direct about what they want/how they feel about you....doesn't even come close to describing the reality. Or maybe it's just because I am so above and beyond other Toubab's even, so beautiful and funny and intelligent and unique that I attract the most lovesick boys ever to walk the face of the earth. It's getting beyond the point of annoying and tiring, its become downright angering and frustrating.
Most of the time I'm aware that these men are either joking, or just trying their hand at being macho with a white girl. This means cocky grins, horribly butchered English which usually includes phrases like “Aye love you!” or “I want white wife! I want live in America!” Which ends in laughter, and me trying to convince them that their own country is just perfect the way it is, and that white girls will end up making them wash their clothes and cook dinner every night...it usually ends there.
But literally ever guy I actually meet, shake hands with, etc, there are lingering glances, prolonged hand-holding, etc. Every time I enter a boutique, men turn around at my “Bonjour, salaam aleikoum,” and stare. One man said, “Mais que vous etes tellement belle...c'est comment? Vous etes italienne? Americaine...mais vous etes la plus belle americaine que j'ai vu...” (You are so beautiful...what's your name? Are you Italian? American? You're the most beautiful American I've ever seen...”). After asking for my number after all of this, and when I said I already have a boyfriend in Dakar – (though this is not necessarily true, it usually works....sometimes this doesn't mean a thing), he seemed disappointed, grinned, shook his head and whistled, before walking out.
Men lean out Car Rapide windows to stare at me and shout something. Men stop me when I'm walking along the sidewalk. Men follow me down the sidewalk for blocks. One of the guides on one of our MSID trips asked for my number after telling me how beautiful I was. Eddy, one of the Senegalese students who came with us to Toubacouta, called me nonstop for a month before getting the hint, sometimes more than once a day, telling me that “he can't stop thinking about me, and that I'm special...not like the others.” The guy from the 7 place last weekend texted me 12 times to tell me he can't stop thinking about my hair and my eyes, and that it is an emergency, he has to see me before I leave. When I left, he called me Monday to say “I'm coming to Fatick to see you.” Who knows if he actually did or not...he doesn't know where I live here. “I've never felt like this about a girl before...I'm serious, I'm not joking with you...please believe me.”
My friend Laye (short for Abdoullaye), one of the Senegalese students from the English club that I met that one Saturday in Dakar at Cheikh Anta Diop University, who I have been texting back and forth with since then, confessed his undying love for me last night. “I think it's high time to admit that I'm in love with you, Danielle Ciribassi.” Darn it...I thought. I thought he was the only Senegalese guy I've met who was able to maintain a steady, FRIENDS-ONLY relationship with. But no, apparently he's been pining for me this whole time too. “What would you do if your friend told you they were in love with you?..and they were serious?” “Don't make me cry...I don't want to think about the fact that you're leaving in three weeks.”
Senegalese men are so sentimental. The brother of Abdoullaye, who is divorced but also in his 40's, was super nice to me at the Birthday Party I talked about. I thought he was another harmless older male figure. I haven't seen him since then, and the other day I saw him on the street. I went over to say hello to him, but strangely, he leaned in and kissed me cheeks warmly. This is not at all uncommon here, it was just strange because I had put out my hand...showing what I was comfortable with. I'm still not sure if he was joking with me or not, but he said, “It's been so long since I've seen you last! Aye love you (in English)! You are so beautiful, I miss seeing you at my house! When can I come marry you?” I know this last part was a joke, he obviously doesn't want to marry me. But to make advances, even harmless flirting, seemed really unexpected coming from him. I laughed along with him, and said I had too many men on my plate to deal with...I couldn't handle any more. He laughed, and the conversation ended. It was just so strange. When I told Yaay about it (who thinks it's funny, all the men who bug me and follow me around here), she just said, “Oh! Tell him you don't want a husband right now!” She laughed, and didn't find it at all odd that her brother in law who is more than twice my age, decided he found me appealing enough to make advances on me. Whatever, I guess. Abdoullaye seems to get annoyed with how often I get hit on, and said it's probably because I give off the impression that I'm “easy”. Why, you may ask, does he think this? Not because I wear slutty clothing, or hang out in shady places...because I “talk to boys,” because I “answer people when they talk to me.” !?!!!! What am I supposed to do?? I thought this was considered polite?!....apparently this gives off the 'wrong impression.' He angrily told me I need to “BUL WAX - DIT RIEN,” - say nothing - (as he makes a 'zip lip' motion.)
I've been trying this...it doesn't work. When Yaay and I went to the tailor the other day to make matching dresses (she decided on the spot that she wanted the dress I had designed, for herself too), the tailor asked me for my number when she wasn't looking. He said I was gorgeous, and that he wants to come by so we can “mieux se connaitre” (get to know each other better). Then Yaay heard him, and turned around to his grinning face and, laughing, basically told him to leave me alone and that if she heard him talking to me like that again, he would regret it. Go Yaay:)
And now for the major problem I'm encountering right now...with Cheikh. Cheikh is a 30 year old single guy who works at the PDIF office in Fatick. There are three people that work there, in charge of surveying the projects in place right now in the region....in a tiny air-conditioned, Wi-Fi building. It's pretty nice. Anyway, I've seen Cheikh around...noticed his gotee...a little too “metal rocker” for most Senegalese men who are completely clean-shaven.
Two weeks ago, Yaay told me I would be “spending the day at PDIF” with Cheikh, to “ask questions about PDIF” for my report. I went along with it, I needed a few things clarified anyway. I found it a bit odd, however, when on the way over Yaay added nonchalantly, “If you need more time there, you can go back after lunch.” I was like, “I doubt I'll need more time, but ok.”
So I did the interview, asked the questions I had prepared, at around 11:00 o'clock. After him telling me I am the “epitome of what Senegalese men find attractive, my body, my curves, my hair, and my face...he found me “extremely attractive..” (Me telling him that he found me attractive simply because I'm a Toubab, making me 'exotic' and 'different,' didn't ward him off...he works very often with Toubab students who come down to do internships, and he said none of them were as beautiful as me...at this point I was wondering how many others he had said this to). I didn't think anything of it, because I hear this all the time – yes, it does wonders for my self-image and confidence!! Surprisingly I don't have a big ego at all:) - We did ended up chatting for a while after that, to the point where I was home half an hour after 1:00...which is when I had planned on being home for lunch. Luckily lunch hadn't been served yet, and when I apologized for being late, Yaay said quickly, “No, don't worry! It's ok! I was a little late too. How did you like Cheikh's motorcycle?” (Everyone has motorcycles in Fatick, you can even ride one like a taxi...they're cheaper and more economical here...and the weather permits them all year round).
When mentioning something about this to Ngone, Yaay's sister (she was still visiting at this point), she said that Cheikh had come into the mutuelle some day when I wasn't there, and ended up sitting down with Ngone and confessing that he was in love with me. Ngone then proceeded to tell me that Cheikh had not only worked for Yaay at the mutuelle for 6 years after college before working for PDIF, but that he was considered like a son. He is apparently really close to our family. Ngone said they always tease him because he never has girlfriends, he never dates...and every other female intern that has come to Fatick has been in love with Cheikh, and he never wants to have anything romantic with them. Lucky me.
I went to PDIF again to use the wireless internet a week later, as well as work on one of the reports for our mutuelle, for PDIF. It was just the two of us in the office, and he was sitting there staring at me. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told me he was “just looking at my beauty.” It was after chatting and exchanging music a bit – mind you, I was happy to be hanging out with someone my age/older for once, rather than 6 children...I felt less like a babysitter – Cheikh confessed that he was in love with me. The reason he didn't date and wasn't married, was because he was “scared of meeting the wrong woman...and that he was really picky.” He wants someone who is “intelligent, beautiful, and with whom he can chat and talk with.”...someone like me. Aiyayaya... He seemed so happy, so relieved to admit that he was in love. I didn't want to hurt his feelings right away, so I didn't say anything. At the moment as well, I was like...well I DO get along with him really well, maybe I should keep my options open...after all, he's older, mature, a thinker, respects women and has a job...we have a lot of the same interests – micro finance, women's economic development, classic rock, etc – but the problem is, he started talking about marriage. He still has the conservative mentality of a Senegalese man. Girl=love=marriage. And since I had already expressed a strong interest in coming back to Senegal, he saw this as, “Well of course, you're coming back! We can get married when you come back! I could be staring into the eyes of my future wife...”
Yes...this is after only two days of real conversation. And my dilemma worsens. I tried to talk to Yaay about it to get her perspective and advice, but since Cheikh is like her son....she screamed and clapped her hands happily. “Maangi santi Yalla,” she said (thank God!) “Cheikh has finally found someone! He finally loves someone! I told him that if I didn't find a wife soon, I would find one for him!” Of course she wouldn't force me to marry him if I didn't want to...of course not. But when I told her that I didn't love him back, she said, “Well...learn to love him! You must learn how to love him! Cheikh would make a very, very good husband, believe me. I've known him for a long time.” For her, the idea that I wouldn't want Cheikh as a husband, was inconceivable...he made enough money, he was respectful, close to the family, kind, etc. Why wouldn't I love him? He's quite a catch.
So...I told Cheikh I am not ready to speak about marriage. The other day he asked me if I would be ok with “living together before marriage, despite what Madame Sow might say about us?” I told him I had just gotten out of a serious relationship that was on the road to marriage...I am not ready to talk about it again with anyone right now. He said he understood, but he still couldn't stop thinking about me, and that he missed me...it had been 48 hours.
I am so sick of this...I want to be left alone. I want to be able to converse with people of the opposite sex without being taken the wrong way, or without making everyone fall in love with me. I think I take this for granted in the United States, that girls and guys can be friends without other intentions – and even if there are other intentions, you can act for a long time, like there aren't....the friendship doesn't have to suffer.
This is tiring.

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The other day on the way home, Yaay said she had to “stop somewhere for a wedding.” I said it was a little early, and she said the ceremony hadn't started yet...she was being pretty vague about why, exactly, therefore we were there.
We walked into a house compound, many one-story cement bedrooms and kitchens that faced inward to a sandy courtyard where a tent and chairs had been set up. A few people were milling about, but not many. We were ushered into a bedroom, and sat down on the bed. A woman began talking to Yaay in a hushed, but obviously trepidated voice. I wasn't sure what was going on, and no one was saying anything to me. All I could understand was, “xalis,” (money), and “begg naa la gis.” (I want to see her).
Finally, when the woman left, and I asked Yaay what was going on. She mysteriously said, “The couple who is getting married today is having problems with financing the wedding. It seemed a little strange to me that the day of the wedding, they were having discussions about how to pay for it. She explained that both of the groom's parents were deceased, and the bride's mother was also deceased. Her father was M.I.A., and didn't seem to be on his way for his own daughter's wedding. Yaay was not happy about this, but more so, she was upset that the bride's stepmother was also not there. Apparently this was the woman she had come to see. The woman came back and told Yaay that the step mother was not there, so Yaay called the woman on her cellphone. She was apparently three hours away, and couldn't come any time soon.
I kept wondering why Yaay was here...this was the niece of her best friend, she said, but I still couldn't understand why she had such a vested interest in the financial aspects of the wedding. It suddenly occurred to me that Yaay might be the one who was offering to help pay for it. Judging by how well off my family is in comparison to the house we were in, it wouldn't surprise me to know that they had come to her for help.
The woman left again and I asked Yaay, “C'est toi qui va donner les aider avec le financement?” (Is it you that's going to help them with the financing?) She nodded her head, and grinned a little that I had figured this out. Apparently she had already given some money a few days ago, with the intention that the stepmother would pay her back...but the woman was nowhere to be found, and hadn't yet mentioned how she was planning to pay her back.
After a while we realized there was nothing we could do there, we got up. Yaay reached in her purse and took out 5,000CFA for “la coiffure” (to get the bride's hair done). The woman thanked us, and said she had to get back to cooking (I heard “ciep bu jen”).
I didn't get to go to the wedding because as happens, Yaay assumed I didn't want to be woken up (I fell asleep waiting for her), and went without me. Oh well.

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I will list some things that I've gotten used to here, that all of you might get a kick out of

What Akon means to people here
This may seem laughable...and I admit I bet I couldn't even name an Akon song before coming here...but Akon is to Senegal, as Arnold Schwarzenegger is for Austria...or the guy from Smashing Pumpkins is for Glenbard North. He was born in Senegal (a fun fact I'm sure no American knows, or cares about)...which makes him a legend here. I've heard Akon blasting in Casamance, as people washed their taxies...at home in Dakar...in the streets...and “Number one hustler (I'm So Paid)” playing in the background as my family in Fatick does their afternoon prayers in strict, solemn formation.
I don't think I would like Akon normally, and the fact that I – unlike the Senegalese – actually understand his lyrics, leads me to be rather unimpressed. It's the kind of music I would half-heartedly appreciate in a bar or dance club, but would never listen to at home. However, now that Akon has found his way into my heart....or forced and scarred into my brain from months of nonstop playing of his songs...he now represents a certain nostalgia that I connect with Senegal. I'll never be able to let it go...and probably will continue to listen to “Keep on Callin'” on my home computer.
In Senegal, we don't say anything, no Salaam Aleikoum, in the mornings before we brush our teeth/wash/shower...it's rude.
In Senegal, we don't say please or thank you...in fact there doesn't exist a work for “please” in Wolof. I never realized how much Americans overuse the word “please.” Americans add it in all the time, to spice up whatever we're doing with someone else. The more times we say please, the more polite we think we're being. I've learned that here in Senegal, it's just completely unnecessary...after I while I realized that I'm wasting my breath. “Please” and “thank you” are understood. In a world where family, friends, and community means more than an American can understand unless they've lived here amongst it...you are responsible for other people. Saying please is a waste of time, because the other person is expected to keep you in mind and look out for you. It's their responsibility, in a way, and they're happy to do it. They know that they're supposed to tear off some fish and drop it in your portion during lunch if you haven't eaten any in a while; it's jumping up to get you water when you say you're thirsty without being asked; it's handing you a spoon before sitting down; it's offering you a seat when they see you're there's something you need or want, someone else around you has already thought of it...and is running to get it for you. You don't usually have to ask. If you do, it's just “jox ma samma_” (give me my), or “mayma ko” (give it to me). And people pass it without a second glance. Hardly ever say thank you unless it's something unexpected, like a gift. If I said thank you every time someone did something for me or gave me something, I would be spending half my day saying thank you's. Once in a while it's nice, quietly, so the person giving you whatever it is, can hear – it isn't something everyone else around needs to hear. Somehow this has made it more sincere, more special, than in the United States. Saying please in the United States, and thank you, acknowledges that the other person didn't have to do something for you, and that it's something out of the ordinary. That they're taking time out of their day, their life, their busy schedule – and that's what makes it so nice of them to do something for YOU. Here, it's part of life...if normal behavior to give and to receive. Which makes it not necessary to acknowledge all the time. I hope that's clear, and you all don't think “Wow, the Senegalese are really rude.”
After a while, you realize you're the only one judging yourself. Everyone here wants me to gain wait. And when Yaay sits around proudly without a shirt on, comfortably lounging around after a meal, her rolls displayed to the world...no one gives it a second thought. They tell me that it means you're eating well, that you're living well, and you're enjoying life. All the skinny girls around here want to gain wait, and the larger women definitely are more proud than smaller women. They walk around with an air of importance, and say that skinny women are “sickly” and “not in good health.” Their idea of “good health” here is completely the inverse of the United States. We think that thin and fit is “good health,” and they think that a good amount of padding is good health. One could argue that scientific knowledge of health in the States overrides theirs, or lack their of – but people here are definitely more satisfied mentally, emotionally, with their physique and self-image. They are more confident, and Anorexia/Bulimia is non-existant...eating-related disorders and disease doesn't exist. One could argue that this point alone is a point in favor of the Senegalese idea of good health. Added with the fact that I am not constantly bombarded here with advertisements and TV ads 24/7 telling me about the next best way to lose weight – because of course I want to lose weight, like everyone else – in time for summer bikinis, or in general. The next big diet, the next big success story, the next talk show host that's going to showcase someone who's lost a bunch of weight, the next best deal for Lifetime membership to “get in shape!”. I am not bombarded with advertisements for watches or purses or cars or other unrelated merchandise, sported by another stick-skinny, starved European model with hollowed and sunken eyes...branded as the idea of beauty. This is not beautiful. This is sick. The fact that we emmulate this idea day in and day out, and that most of the female population in Europe and the United States, since they do not adhere to this unreachable standard, walk around all the time with complexes and self-hating tendencies and lack of self-esteem – is even worse. This is not normal, it's not natural...and people in Senegal emulate the Woman for who she is, by nature...squishy in certain parts, curvy, and healthy. She is strong, powerful, confident, and fat....and in this way, she is beautiful. Beauty truly is on the inside here, since exterior beauty is shown by beautiful clothes and a full-figured appearance. Not makeup, not liposuction, not anything. People look the way they were meant to look...by God, if you want to look at it that way, or by Nature. Some women are missing teeth. Some women are missing eyes, or their eyes look in a strange direction. Some women are missing noses. Some women are just not that beautiful, and wouldn't get any attention at all in the United States. But they filter in and out of my life, coming into our house at night to chat and laugh and mingle with my family and I...and this is natural. Every person is treated with dignity and respect, regardless of their appearance. I also do not have a mirror here, apart from a tiny hand-held mirror I bought so I can put in my contacts. It has been a month since I have seen my body, in it's entirety. And it's refreshing...I've almost stopped caring. The other day my host dad told me I've gained weight since I've been here. When I went back to Dakar, they said I had lost weight. My guess is my host dad in Fatick told me this in order to compliment me – telling someone they've gained weight is a good thing. I found myself wondering which was true...had I gained or lost weight? I even felt a sense of panic...I don't want to go back to the United States fatter than when I arrived! I don't want to look like these gigantic women wearing boubous proudly! But then I realized...why do I care? Why do I care which one it was, if I got slightly bigger or smaller? This isn't a big deal! When I catch myself touching my stomach and wondering if it's bigger, or squeezing my love handles after a large meal...I look around me and realize no one else is paying attention. It's just me that's judging myself.
Our standards of impoliteness here in Senegal are different. People don't think anything of picking noses (slight brushing of the interior of the nose...not gold digging), going 10 feet away from people to snort snot out onto the ground, or hawking spit.
Kids do everything...basically are everyone's little servants...but they like it – how? You offer them bonbons for helping from a very young age, and if they whine or refuse, you threaten them with knives (not seriously). Sort of like our version of what Santa Claus does to bad little boys and girls...only a slightly more serious version. Hey, the original version of Santa Claus in Germany was that Santa would stuff bad children into his sack and kidnap them into the woods, and make them work for 30 years.
Yelling – Women here use tones of voices that would normally be translated to others as extremely infuriated in the United States, are simple statements of passionate opinions...or just how some women talk. Men are usually a lot quieter, meeker. Sometimes I feel like plugging my ears at work, because Yaay goes off on her rampages in a piercing voice, and then Binta answers in a louder, ridiculously high-pitched voice. Then a man comes in and timidly asks for Madame Sow, and is drowned out by six other women who want to get their two cents in too. After dinner when Yaay lays out on a blanket with some of the kids outside in the courtyard, she never yells. In fact, at home she never yells. It's only when it involves work, or someone who has done something wrong...usually someone at the Conseil Regional.

Speaking of the Conseil Regional and Sengolene Royale, there's a pretty big scandal that Yaay told me about going on with the money Sengolene Royale had given for the new environmental projects. At the large conference I described where it was basically just praising Sengolene Royale, she had mentioned that she had already given the grant money, and had mentioned that it was already in the individual accounts of the Women's Groups at the mutuells (like ours in Fatick).
This, however, is not true. Yaay told me the other day on the way back from Tattaguine, after I asked her about a pretty heated discussion with the other woman in Wolof (yes, genuinely more heated than how they usually talk...this is how I knew something was wrong), that the money is not in the women's accounts. Instead, the old President of the Conseil Regional, a man named Abdoullaye Sene, who was in the middle of a transitional period with the new President, had deposited all the money in his own personal account. Everyone knows about this, and he claims that Case Foyer (our mutuelle in Fatick), should loan out the money to the women first...and he'll reimburse the mutuelle afterwards. First of all, this is impossible because there isn't enough money in the mutuelle to loan out that amount of money. Second of all, this is wrong on so many other levels...this wasn't in the agreement, Sengolene Royale is not aware of this, and third of all, there is nothing binding him to this agreement – he is no longer the President of the Conseil Regional.
Of course this won't go anywhere...I hope...meaning it won't get worse. I asked Yaay what she's going to do, and she said she was going to sign a petition of all the women, and bring it to the Conseil Regional and say, “I'm not going to finance these women's projects until the money is where it's supposed to be.” If the new President, or whoever, can't get Monsieur Sene to put the money where it's supposed to go and out of his own personal account, then they can get Sengolene Royale involved and mention it to the Senegalese police. There is too much foreign interest at stake here, there is no way he can get away with it for long.



So in a package my parents sent me for my birthday (along with matzo, card, jelly beans, M&M's, and a chocolate bar), a package of cake mix and frosting. After the kids devoured the jelly beans and M&M's (I made sure that I ate some of it before I showed it to the kids because I knew that would happen), I showed them the cake mix. Yaay and Abdoullaye were pretty interesting in the idea that in order to make a cake, you just add a few ingredients to the mix in the box...and heat it in the oven. They looked at the English and tried to read it out loud. The kids were beside themselves with excitement; I had showed them a game that had come on my computer, where you can make cakes according to a model. It's a pretty fun, colorful game. Anyway, the idea that we were actually going to MAKE one of these cakes and eat it...well it was more than they can handle. Also, cakes like this don't really exist in Fatick. The only time I saw cakes, was in Dakar at a patisserie, French-style....tiny, thick, rich, with a ton of mousse. It definitely was not the American idea of a fluffy, sugary, fun, colorful birthday cake.
I bought butter and eggs, and Yaay and Abdoullaye bought gas for the oven...since they never use it. They use traditional “ovens,” which are basically a gas tank on the bottom, with a round metal thing on top where you put the pots. Anyway, after two days of anticipation, and the kids passing around the box, touching the picture of the cake and pretending to eat it, and licking off their fingers...it was time to make the cake. I must admit I was a bit nervous, because there was a lot of pressure. Abdoullaye said to me, “Laura cooked for us...you have to cook us something American. No one can help you.” But of course the kids...even the boys...were in the kitchen with me. This oven is not what we're used to...it's at least 10 years old, and you can't set the temperature. Who knows how well it works.
We mixed together the ingredients, and I stirred it with a fork myself...for at least 10 minutes, since we didn't have an electric mixer as called for in the directions. After I couldn't mix anymore, and it seemed pretty smooth, we poured it into the one appropriate, oven-safe metal container they have – a bunt mold. Yes, we made a birthday cake bunt. Since there was left-over batter, we made a separate tiny cake. We sat outside and checked on it every 10 minutes. Finally, it was finished, but the smaller cake was pretty burned on the outside. The kids didn't seem to care.
However, when we opened the chocolate, we realized it was all melted. Having to wait for the cake to cool off anyway, I put the chocolate icing in the fridge while we ate dinner. After dinner, I went into the kitchen to frost the cake, and then brought it out on a tray. Everyone went nuts. The chocolate cake/bunt caused quite the reaction. Even Abdoullaye seemed excited. Each person got a plate for once, but of course we ate it with our hands...which was pretty messy. Abdoullaye said he prefers “bread” like the cake, fluffy and moist. He said it was truly “neex na”. (delicious). It made me feel good...and hooray, there was enough for everyone.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for helping me to show my family here about birthday cakes...or bunts...whatever, it tastes the same:).

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We went to the beach on Sunday. Yes, there is a beach in Fatick, contrary to what Antoine teased me about before leaving. It is not just desert. There is the 'bras de mer' here, which is basically large salty reserves of blue water in the middle of desert. It's really pretty, and the family piled in the car and stopped off at the market to buy fresh fish. We brought the oven/grill thingy and some charcoal to cook the fish while we were there.
The 6 kids, me, Yaay, Abdoullaye, as well as his brother Modou and Pap Sow (little Pap Sow...people call Abdoullaye that too, since they have the same name) all went to the beach...so it was a pretty big group. I went in right away with the kids...there were three other kids there with their mom, who was friends with Yaay, so there were a lot of kids in the water. Once they realized I could actually swim, for real...even float (planner)...this caused quite a hubub. “Apprend-moi! Apprend-moi a nager!” All the kids screamed, “begg na jang fee (“fay”)!” “I want to learn how to swim!” Even the adults looked, and Modou (Abdoullaye's brother) wanted me to teach him. Unfortunately, he's the one with burned feet from an accident about two months ago...which is painful in salt water like this with high salt concentration.
Abdoullaye watched but didn't say much. It had been his idea to come to the beach a few weeks ago, and from what I gathered he really loves the water himself...although he claims he's “sick of the sea.” He spent 20 years on the sea, doing something with fishing up and down the West African coast. All he said during all the commotion while I floated and swam with ease, was, “Swim to the other side, if you're a real swimmer.” “Ok!!” I shouted back, and dove in. I swam freestyle to the other side of the small lake (about 400 feet). Not hard at all. But everyone thought this was amazing and hooted and hollered. After about an hour, of course Abdoullaye had to get in and do it too.
We were at the beach for at least 3 and a half hours. I got a wicked sunburn because I had forgotten to wear sunscreen...just like me...but it was great. We had a really really good time.

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