I just finished all of my finals and papers!!! Whooo! In the past four days I have written three pages in Wolof, ten pages in English, and 16 in French. Tonight I will finally get to sleep without feeling guilty.
I have not done much in the past week due to finals, so this is not really going to be an interesting blog entry... just a forewarning.
Now that I am done with all academic work, the reality of leaving Senegal is really sinking in. As much as I want to go home, I will really miss many elements of life here. The group of us students have become very close the past four months, and saying good-bye is going to be really tough. Additionally, I really really don't know how I am going to leave Soso. She has been so wonderful, everything I could have ever hoped for in a host mother. On Monday night she gave me a t-shirt as a parting gift, and this is the most beautiful t-shirt I have ever seen. It is literally like a painting on a t-shirt, showing a collage of scenes from Senegal: a Baobab tree, a scene from Goree Island, and a car rapide. I think I may frame it. The weather here has been quite lovely, in the 80-90 degree range, typically sunny, perfect beach weather. The other day (taking into consideration the windchill) there was over a 100 -degree difference between Dakar and Chicago. I may freeze to death when I go back.
Tuesday night we had a final group dinner. There were several student performances, including my dance group. One student, Claire, shared her talent for opera with us. There were also a few poems read aloud. A group of students made superlatives for everyone and wrote them on paper plates. My paper plate read: "Most Malaria Tests, Best Looking in Braids, and Most likely to know the nutritional value of what you're eating."
Yesterday morning we had a "re-entry" meeting, which was in a way like a reverse orientation/group therapy session. We were forewarned that counter culture shock is a real thing, and given suggestions on how to cope with it. We also expressed our concerns with leaving and what we're going to miss. The whole thing was really emotional and over half of us were crying by the end (including one of the directors).
I have four days left in Senegal. In that time I plan on packing everything, going to the beach, going out to this renowed Lebanese restaurant in Dakar, going to N'Ice Cream, the best ice cream ever, one more time, and then taking a day trip to the Island of Goree one more time. I leave Monday at 11:35 PM. I have a layover in Paris, and then I will arrive in DC on the 21st around 1 PM (inshallah). After spending a day in DC, I fly to Chicago the morning of the 22nd. And then I will be home for the holidays!
This is my second-to-last entry. After arriving in the States, I will write my conclusion to this blog. I would attempt now to write one, but I really need to gather my thoughts on these past four months first.
A la prochaine/Ba beneen yoon/Until next time!
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
L’anniversaire de Soso
I would like to start by apologizing for my negativity in the previous entry. Sometimes academics and Senegal just don’t mix.
Thursday we were advised (by our professor/the program director) to not let final exams and papers deter us from having a good time in our last days in Senegal. I heeded this advice by going to the beach yesterday and I plan on attending a concert later tonight. The papers will get done… inshallah. I’ve already taken the written portion of my French final, and the more I think about it, the more sick to my stomach I get about how badly I probably did… So for now I’m just going to pretend it didn’t happen. French grammar/syntax/style is perhaps one of the most frustrating subjects I’ve ever studied.
Thursday was also Soso’s birthday. I had already made her a card, which I intended to give her with a present containing an Obama t-shirt and a little blue beanie baby/teddy bear that says “American University” on it. Unfortunately I did not have any wrapping paper, and when I pulled the Obama t-shirt out of my bag, I noticed that it somehow got weird orange blotches all over it. So, I settled on just giving her the little AU bear. She ended up loving it, and put it right on her living room shelf. I noticed that she was already preparing for her birthday party, to take place that evening.
I went to the tailor that afternoon to pick up a dress I had been anticipating for quite some time. I had found some gorgeous fabric at one of the markets, and dropped it off at the tailor to make into a dress. The dress at first glance was beautiful, and I couldn’t wait to wear it that night for Soso’s birthday dinner. I got home that evening, and as soon as I went into my room, the power went out. I proceeded to change into the dress, only I noticed that the waist of the dress was missing elastic, nor did the dress have any zipper – essentially, the dress fit my body shape perfectly, but I really had no way of putting it on or taking it off since the waist section was much smaller than my hips and my shoulders. Nevertheless, I was determined to wear it, so I managed to get it on. Unfortunately, as soon as I got it on, I realized it was inside out… and this was not a dress that one could get away with wearing inside out. I went to pull it off, but the dress would not budge. The waist section just would not slide over my shoulders. I could not get this dress off. I had only one option: to cut the dress. Unfortunately even still, I did not have any scissors. And then, as I stood there, in the dark of my electricity-less bedroom, stuck in an inside-out dress looking ridiculous, Soso knocks on the door to tell me that I need to come to the living room because dinner was getting started. I tried to explain my situation, but she didn’t understand. I asked for scissors, and she said that she wouldn't be able to find any in the dark. The living room was well lit because of all the candles, so one would obviously be able to tell I was wearing a dress inside out. I told her that I would be there in a minute. Thinking fast, I dug through my bags and found my nail kit containing a tiny pair of scissors, and proceeded to cut/tear the dress just enough so that I could get out of it. I grabbed the first dress I saw (that I knew actually fit me), and ran out of my bedroom (by this time really sweaty) to find the living room full of people.
Soso gave me an empty glass and asked what I wanted to drink, referring to the table covered in bottles of alcohol. I said that beer would suffice, and she asked me if I was sure I didn’t want whiskey or gin instead. For reasons I would rather not disclose, I distrust Senegalese hard alcohol, so I insisted that beer would suffice. I sat down and saw that everyone else was drinking whiskey on the rocks. I also noticed that the majority of guests to the birthday party were men… and all of them were referred to as “frère.” I deduced that I was drinking in the company of a bunch of priests. This conclusion was validated when each asked me why I never attended mass with Soso, and that they would expect to see me this Sunday. I must say that this party was the first time I’ve ever felt peer pressured by priests/monks to drink more: “Rebecca, il faut boire tout le bouteille!” (Rebecca, you have to drink that whole bottle!) Of course, the women served the dinner, and with it plenty of red wine. After dinner, Soso brought out four large bottles of champagne. By the end of the party, Soso was dancing and singing with a bottle of champagne in hand, refilling empty glasses. All the while, the electricity never came back on.
As I helped clean up after the party, I reflected on how fortunate I’ve been to have such a wonderful abroad homestay. It has been very unorthodox, as most students have large, Muslim, conservative families, and I have just one host mom who is Catholic and likes to dance with bottles of champagne on her birthday. Soso has never failed to make me smile, even after the toughest of days. She has played such a great role in my semester abroad that I will never be able to remember Senegal without thinking of her.
Yesterday I went to the tailor first thing in the morning to see if there was any way the dress that I had destroyed the night before could be saved. The tailor gave me a look that read something along the lines of, “What the hell did you do?!” She said that she would try her best to salvage it, but she couldn’t make any promises. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.
It may be because I have only nine days left, but I have realized how much I’m going to miss elements of life here. Although it is easy to complain about the incessant heat, I would take the heat and hours at the beach over frigid Chicago winters any day. I also am sad that I will not be able to include random Wolof words and phrases into my daily speak after returning to the US… of course, I still could, but nobody would understand and the fun of it would be gone.
Léegi léegi!
Thursday we were advised (by our professor/the program director) to not let final exams and papers deter us from having a good time in our last days in Senegal. I heeded this advice by going to the beach yesterday and I plan on attending a concert later tonight. The papers will get done… inshallah. I’ve already taken the written portion of my French final, and the more I think about it, the more sick to my stomach I get about how badly I probably did… So for now I’m just going to pretend it didn’t happen. French grammar/syntax/style is perhaps one of the most frustrating subjects I’ve ever studied.
Thursday was also Soso’s birthday. I had already made her a card, which I intended to give her with a present containing an Obama t-shirt and a little blue beanie baby/teddy bear that says “American University” on it. Unfortunately I did not have any wrapping paper, and when I pulled the Obama t-shirt out of my bag, I noticed that it somehow got weird orange blotches all over it. So, I settled on just giving her the little AU bear. She ended up loving it, and put it right on her living room shelf. I noticed that she was already preparing for her birthday party, to take place that evening.
I went to the tailor that afternoon to pick up a dress I had been anticipating for quite some time. I had found some gorgeous fabric at one of the markets, and dropped it off at the tailor to make into a dress. The dress at first glance was beautiful, and I couldn’t wait to wear it that night for Soso’s birthday dinner. I got home that evening, and as soon as I went into my room, the power went out. I proceeded to change into the dress, only I noticed that the waist of the dress was missing elastic, nor did the dress have any zipper – essentially, the dress fit my body shape perfectly, but I really had no way of putting it on or taking it off since the waist section was much smaller than my hips and my shoulders. Nevertheless, I was determined to wear it, so I managed to get it on. Unfortunately, as soon as I got it on, I realized it was inside out… and this was not a dress that one could get away with wearing inside out. I went to pull it off, but the dress would not budge. The waist section just would not slide over my shoulders. I could not get this dress off. I had only one option: to cut the dress. Unfortunately even still, I did not have any scissors. And then, as I stood there, in the dark of my electricity-less bedroom, stuck in an inside-out dress looking ridiculous, Soso knocks on the door to tell me that I need to come to the living room because dinner was getting started. I tried to explain my situation, but she didn’t understand. I asked for scissors, and she said that she wouldn't be able to find any in the dark. The living room was well lit because of all the candles, so one would obviously be able to tell I was wearing a dress inside out. I told her that I would be there in a minute. Thinking fast, I dug through my bags and found my nail kit containing a tiny pair of scissors, and proceeded to cut/tear the dress just enough so that I could get out of it. I grabbed the first dress I saw (that I knew actually fit me), and ran out of my bedroom (by this time really sweaty) to find the living room full of people.
Soso gave me an empty glass and asked what I wanted to drink, referring to the table covered in bottles of alcohol. I said that beer would suffice, and she asked me if I was sure I didn’t want whiskey or gin instead. For reasons I would rather not disclose, I distrust Senegalese hard alcohol, so I insisted that beer would suffice. I sat down and saw that everyone else was drinking whiskey on the rocks. I also noticed that the majority of guests to the birthday party were men… and all of them were referred to as “frère.” I deduced that I was drinking in the company of a bunch of priests. This conclusion was validated when each asked me why I never attended mass with Soso, and that they would expect to see me this Sunday. I must say that this party was the first time I’ve ever felt peer pressured by priests/monks to drink more: “Rebecca, il faut boire tout le bouteille!” (Rebecca, you have to drink that whole bottle!) Of course, the women served the dinner, and with it plenty of red wine. After dinner, Soso brought out four large bottles of champagne. By the end of the party, Soso was dancing and singing with a bottle of champagne in hand, refilling empty glasses. All the while, the electricity never came back on.
As I helped clean up after the party, I reflected on how fortunate I’ve been to have such a wonderful abroad homestay. It has been very unorthodox, as most students have large, Muslim, conservative families, and I have just one host mom who is Catholic and likes to dance with bottles of champagne on her birthday. Soso has never failed to make me smile, even after the toughest of days. She has played such a great role in my semester abroad that I will never be able to remember Senegal without thinking of her.
Yesterday I went to the tailor first thing in the morning to see if there was any way the dress that I had destroyed the night before could be saved. The tailor gave me a look that read something along the lines of, “What the hell did you do?!” She said that she would try her best to salvage it, but she couldn’t make any promises. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.
It may be because I have only nine days left, but I have realized how much I’m going to miss elements of life here. Although it is easy to complain about the incessant heat, I would take the heat and hours at the beach over frigid Chicago winters any day. I also am sad that I will not be able to include random Wolof words and phrases into my daily speak after returning to the US… of course, I still could, but nobody would understand and the fun of it would be gone.
Léegi léegi!
Monday, December 6, 2010
La fin du semestre
Studying for finals and writing papers becomes infinitely harder when…
-The electricity is always out.
-It is impossible to remain connected to the school’s wifi for five consecutive minutes.
-The “library” on campus is a spot to hang out and chat.
-In order to research, you have to rely on a proxy server from your home university with access to scholarly databases.
-You don’t have internet at home, and everywhere on campus closes by seven P.M. on weekdays but doesn’t open until three P.M. on weekends.
-You know you have papers due, but you don’t know when they’re due, what they’re supposed to be on, or how long they are supposed to be.
-Half of the French final is based on something never covered in class.
-Assignments and tests completed two months ago have yet to be graded and returned.
-There is a lovely beach across the street that is constantly calling my name.
-My left eye has decided to get some sort of weird infection and burns incessantly.
It is December 6th and it is still SO hot… I mean at least 90 degrees everyday. For a while it was cooling off at night, but as of late it is hot as ever while I’m trying to sleep. Even worse is that at any given point in time, there is about a 25% chance that the electricity will be working, and thus, no fan. Some neighborhoods in Dakar have been without electricity or water for days at a time. At night when the power is out I lose motivation to do anything other than sleep.
Just two weeks remain, yet home still feels so far away. I imagine how Chicago must look right now: covered in snow, about 80 degrees colder, all the houses covered in lights and decorations all over stores. Here, the gas station has some decorations, but that’s it… not that I was expecting a predominantly Muslim country to get excited about the holiday season.
I’ve realized that the thing I miss the most is being able to relax. This may sound weird, because I spend entire days reading or at the beach. Even so, I feel like I’m always on guard, even when I’m at home or school. Four months into my study abroad experience, I still am afraid of stepping on toes or committing some cultural insensitivity. I also feel like I never have any space. I have my own room, but every time I hide out there I feel guilty for not being in a common area of the house. African cultures have a much different concept of space, and I’m constantly reminded of this when people stand uncomfortably close behind me at the store or practically sit on top of me on car rapides. I cannot wait to be able to come home from school or work, sprawl out on the couch, watch my favorite T.V. shows, and more than anything, feel completely comfortable.
Yesterday a bunch of CIEE students got together to watch Elf (my favorite Christmas/holiday movie). While it was wonderful to watch, it made me incredibly homesick. I’ve mentioned several times already in this blog how my emotions are harder to control here, and such was the case while watching the movie. Just hearing “You make me feel so young” by Frank Sinatra in one of the scenes made me tear up because it reminded me of home so much. I was in good company though. Some people even baked cookies for this event!
Two finals, one presentation, and three papers left to go.
Et puis, la fin du semestre… inshallah!
-The electricity is always out.
-It is impossible to remain connected to the school’s wifi for five consecutive minutes.
-The “library” on campus is a spot to hang out and chat.
-In order to research, you have to rely on a proxy server from your home university with access to scholarly databases.
-You don’t have internet at home, and everywhere on campus closes by seven P.M. on weekdays but doesn’t open until three P.M. on weekends.
-You know you have papers due, but you don’t know when they’re due, what they’re supposed to be on, or how long they are supposed to be.
-Half of the French final is based on something never covered in class.
-Assignments and tests completed two months ago have yet to be graded and returned.
-There is a lovely beach across the street that is constantly calling my name.
-My left eye has decided to get some sort of weird infection and burns incessantly.
It is December 6th and it is still SO hot… I mean at least 90 degrees everyday. For a while it was cooling off at night, but as of late it is hot as ever while I’m trying to sleep. Even worse is that at any given point in time, there is about a 25% chance that the electricity will be working, and thus, no fan. Some neighborhoods in Dakar have been without electricity or water for days at a time. At night when the power is out I lose motivation to do anything other than sleep.
Just two weeks remain, yet home still feels so far away. I imagine how Chicago must look right now: covered in snow, about 80 degrees colder, all the houses covered in lights and decorations all over stores. Here, the gas station has some decorations, but that’s it… not that I was expecting a predominantly Muslim country to get excited about the holiday season.
I’ve realized that the thing I miss the most is being able to relax. This may sound weird, because I spend entire days reading or at the beach. Even so, I feel like I’m always on guard, even when I’m at home or school. Four months into my study abroad experience, I still am afraid of stepping on toes or committing some cultural insensitivity. I also feel like I never have any space. I have my own room, but every time I hide out there I feel guilty for not being in a common area of the house. African cultures have a much different concept of space, and I’m constantly reminded of this when people stand uncomfortably close behind me at the store or practically sit on top of me on car rapides. I cannot wait to be able to come home from school or work, sprawl out on the couch, watch my favorite T.V. shows, and more than anything, feel completely comfortable.
Yesterday a bunch of CIEE students got together to watch Elf (my favorite Christmas/holiday movie). While it was wonderful to watch, it made me incredibly homesick. I’ve mentioned several times already in this blog how my emotions are harder to control here, and such was the case while watching the movie. Just hearing “You make me feel so young” by Frank Sinatra in one of the scenes made me tear up because it reminded me of home so much. I was in good company though. Some people even baked cookies for this event!
Two finals, one presentation, and three papers left to go.
Et puis, la fin du semestre… inshallah!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Ziguinchor et Saint-Louis
Two weekends ago, I traveled to Ziguinchor, the capital of the Casamance region of Senegal. This was originally the destination for my fall break trip at the beginning of October. CIEE made us nix those plans when we learned that travel on roads surrounding Ziguinchor was “strongly discouraged” by the State Department. Apparently villages in the area had been pillaged and there were a lot of car hijackings. Unfortunately we had already bought our non-refundable ferry tickets to sail to Ziguinchor, so we decided to change the date on the tickets so we wouldn’t lose the $60 they cost us. We decided to go to Ziguinchor the weekend after Tabaski, despite the fact that we would be spending about 30 hours onboard a ship and only about 27 hours actually in Ziguinchor. CIEE agreed to let us go on the condition that we stay in Ziguinchor and not travel to other areas of the Casamance.
We got to the harbor around four in the afternoon, went through more security checks than an international flight, and climbed aboard the ship. The “Whirlwind Tour of Ziguinchor” had begun.
To put this into a geographic perspective, the Casamance is the most southern region of Senegal, sharing a border with the country Guinea-Bissau. The ferry leaves the peninsula of Dakar, goes south in the Atlantic along the coast of Senegal, and then West into a river through the Casamance until arriving in Ziguinchor. Each direction on the ferry takes about 15 hours, which kind of amazes me, because it really is not that far in terms of mileage. Even so, it was a pretty nice boat ride going there. I spent most of my time out on the deck, returning to my seat just to attempt to sleep for a few hours. I found the number of tourists/Europeans on the boat pretty crazy, as I thought the ferry was primarily a form of transportation or commuting for Senegalese people.
As the boat sailed up to the harbor (around nine in the morning), I could already see the insane differences between Ziguinchor and Dakar. Everything was so much greener and more tropical, not to mention more relaxed and pleasant. Ziguinchor was basically what I envisioned Senegal to be before arriving. While we walked through the city looking for our hotel, I loved every aspect of the town, from the small shops and buildings to the giant palm trees chaotically grouped all over. We finally made it to the hotel, which was equally lovely.
The Senegal guidebook informed us that a popular tourist spot was a crocodile farm nearby. Supposedly this place not only had crocodiles, but all sorts of exotic plants and fruits. We got into some taxis headed towards the crocodile farm. When the taxis passed a police checkpoint, we realized that we were doing exactly what we were told not to do: leave Ziguinchor. Thankfully it was only a few kilometers down the road, but when we pulled up to the crocodile farm it looked like anything but a hopping tourist attraction. The sign was run down, we got in at a very discounted rate, and if it weren’t for the woman at the gate, there would not have been any people around. Onward we trekked into the crocodile farm, down a dirt path leading into the jungle. Surrounded by freakishly large termite hills, giant bamboo stalks, and overgrown vegetation, it was a bona fide jungle. When the path kept forking and we still hadn’t seen any crocodiles, we started to wonder if we were actually in a type of a labyrinth/Jurassic park designed to trap stupid tourists and if some sort of beast would soon be released to hunt us down. After a bit more walking, we finally saw some crocodiles… in zoo-like cages, looking very bored and sad. There were some cool looking plants and fruits, but I couldn’t even begin to identify what they actually were. A few people of the group insisted that they try crocodile meat, so we stopped at the restaurant once we found our way back to the restaurant. The consensus was that the crocodile meat was quite delicious, although I was content eating pineapple and ice cream.
After getting back into the downtown area of Ziguinchor, we decided to wander the streets for a little while and do some exploring. We found a man (he actually found us) who is a Senegalese musician who lived in Seattle for the past ten years. We also found the major market, where machete options were abundant and no fruit was to be found. The number of churches in Ziguinchor surprised me, because in Dakar I see so many mosques.
The next day we ate some local cuisine for breakfast/lunch. We went to a veritable hole in the wall restaurant… you walked through the door to see one big table surrounded by benches, with the stove and man preparing the food sitting at one side of the table. We sat down and ordered egg sandwiches and café au laits. I could not have even imagined a more appetizing breakfast at that point in time, the sandwich and coffee just held so much promise. We walked out of the restaurant quite pleased that we each only spent about $1.50 for a giant sandwich and coffee. We walked back through the city to the harbor, ready to get back on the same boat we had just gotten off about 28 hours previous. As my bag made the metal detector beep violently, I gave a concerned look to the guard, whom I expected to search my bag. Instead, he laughed loudly, said, “Bon voyage!” and waved me on my way. Apparently 20-year-old American girls do not pose a threat to Senegalese ships.
That evening on board the ship I witnessed one of the most breathtaking sunsets I have ever seen. The sun turned a shade of hot pink that the water brilliantly reflected. I just couldn’t get over how happy I felt, being in such great company witnessing such a beautiful event. I made several declarations about how much I loved ships and how I wished I could take them more often. I stopped short when my stomach began to churn… that egg sandwich was starting to bite me back. When I went to my seat to try to sleep, all I could feel was the rocking of the ship, making my stomach angrier and angrier. I kept telling myself that I was not going to get sick, and I continued to tell myself that for the next several hours until the ferry arrived in Dakar.
I managed to make it back to Soso’s house before upchucking all my stomach’s contents and, surprise surprise, getting a horrible case of diarrhea. I managed to get myself to school only to turn around and go back home after one class. Soso kept laughing, saying, “Haha the boat made you sick!” I did not have the patience or the energy to explain that I was not seasick, but that the egg sandwich ripped apart my entire digestive system. When stomach cramps and diarrhea did not relent by Wednesday, I went to the pharmacy to explain my plight. The pharmacist said, “Well, you should really see a doctor, but here take these.” I laughed to myself as I read, in big bold letters, “Prescription Only,” on each of the boxes.
Thankfully I regained some of my health in time to celebrate Thanksgiving Senegalese-style on Thursday. The student government on campus sponsored this event for all students of Suffolk University-Dakar. It was at the Club Atlantique, which is kind of like a fancy sports/dining/pool club for wealthy people and expatriates in Dakar. I have never had a Thanksgiving dinner poolside, next to a fully stocked bar, with hip-hop music blasting and scantily clad girls dancing and running around. A few of us wondered if we should let them know for future reference that Thanksgiving is supposed to be a wholesome family meal. One of my friends considered asking the DJ to put on some Christmas music. At this point in time, I have taken a “When in Rome” approach to living in Senegal; if a Senegalese Thanksgiving includes raunchy hip-hop music, then it looks like that is how I’m going to celebrate.
This past Friday we left on our final overnight program trip. All of CIEE went to Saint-Louis, city in the very north of Senegal, practically bordering on Mauritania. This city was the capital of Senegal during French colonial rule and shortly after Senegal’s independence. Before arriving in Saint-Louis, we spent a night in the desert. This was an extremely bizarre desert, consisting of grouping giant sand dunes that seemed to be placed in the middle of an area with a lot of vegetation. I never knew how much fun sand dunes could be… I had been to beach sand dunes before, but never desert sand dunes. The sand’s texture was so soft, it was almost powdery. We also got to ride camels! I enjoyed my camel ride, although I could never imagine crossing the Sahara on one. The night sky from the desert was like nothing I have ever seen before. A group of us left our camp and climbed up on one of the high sand dunes to look at the stars. We stayed there, staring at the sky, for quite a while without saying a word.
I awoke in my tent Saturday morning to an unfamiliar feeling: I was cold. Cold! For the first time in so long! We had to get up before the sunrise since we had a lot on the day’s itinerary. We had the option of walking or taking trucks back to the area where we would catch the buses. Feeling ambitious (and rather out of shape from lack of exercise), I decided to make the one-hour trek back. Nothing compares to watching a sunrise while walking through a West African desert. I wish I could do that every morning.
After taking a pirogue tour through a bird reserve, we arrived in downtown Saint-Louis. Every aspect of the city emanated Frenchness. All of the buildings were of a 19th century French colonial style. Most of the roads had French names and the city was structured around a large rectangular garden, something I had never before seen in Senegal. In addition to the architecture and layout of the city, there were tons of toubabs around. I didn’t see a giant market like in Dakar or other Senegalese cities, but I did see a ton of touristy shops selling all things “African”. I feel like I should act like I was above shopping at these stores, but I must admit it was very handy to have a bunch of souvenirs in one place; it made buying gifts a whole lot easier. I watched some French tourists pay a ton of money for some purses, and then suavely walked in and refused to pay more than a quarter of what they paid for the same stuff. By this point I know the art of negotiating prices with vendors quite well – when you don’t get the price you want, just walk away, and the vendor will chase you down the street and concede. I also hated to admit that I found the city aesthetically pleasing… I should have bashed the architecture and gardens because they are concrete evidence of European imperialism and colonization, but I honestly was enamored by everything. We had a guest professor/lecturer come to give us a tour and history of the city. I ate two of the best meals I’ve had in Senegal at our hotel: a veggie omelette/salad and a quiche. I also took a hot shower for the first time in three months… I forgot how wonderful hot showers are.
In a week’s time I got to see the most southern and most northern points of Senegal. Putting Ziguinchor and Saint-Louis side by side, I would never have guessed that they belonged to the same country, let alone the same region of Africa. Both cities were beautiful in very different ways, and I can say that I would choose either city over Dakar.
In other news, Senegal and Mauritania made Al Qaeda angry by arresting some of its members that were in the two countries. I do not know the entire story so I may have part of that wrong, but there have been fighter jets flying around Dakar for the past few weeks. I have heard that they belong to the Senegalese military and are there for defense purposes only. I hardly even notice them anymore, but they are rather noisy and there is something a bit ominous about three fighter planes jetting across the sky every half an hour.
I will be back in the States in exactly three weeks! Unfortunately I have a lot of work to get done before then.
Ciao ciao!
We got to the harbor around four in the afternoon, went through more security checks than an international flight, and climbed aboard the ship. The “Whirlwind Tour of Ziguinchor” had begun.
To put this into a geographic perspective, the Casamance is the most southern region of Senegal, sharing a border with the country Guinea-Bissau. The ferry leaves the peninsula of Dakar, goes south in the Atlantic along the coast of Senegal, and then West into a river through the Casamance until arriving in Ziguinchor. Each direction on the ferry takes about 15 hours, which kind of amazes me, because it really is not that far in terms of mileage. Even so, it was a pretty nice boat ride going there. I spent most of my time out on the deck, returning to my seat just to attempt to sleep for a few hours. I found the number of tourists/Europeans on the boat pretty crazy, as I thought the ferry was primarily a form of transportation or commuting for Senegalese people.
As the boat sailed up to the harbor (around nine in the morning), I could already see the insane differences between Ziguinchor and Dakar. Everything was so much greener and more tropical, not to mention more relaxed and pleasant. Ziguinchor was basically what I envisioned Senegal to be before arriving. While we walked through the city looking for our hotel, I loved every aspect of the town, from the small shops and buildings to the giant palm trees chaotically grouped all over. We finally made it to the hotel, which was equally lovely.
The Senegal guidebook informed us that a popular tourist spot was a crocodile farm nearby. Supposedly this place not only had crocodiles, but all sorts of exotic plants and fruits. We got into some taxis headed towards the crocodile farm. When the taxis passed a police checkpoint, we realized that we were doing exactly what we were told not to do: leave Ziguinchor. Thankfully it was only a few kilometers down the road, but when we pulled up to the crocodile farm it looked like anything but a hopping tourist attraction. The sign was run down, we got in at a very discounted rate, and if it weren’t for the woman at the gate, there would not have been any people around. Onward we trekked into the crocodile farm, down a dirt path leading into the jungle. Surrounded by freakishly large termite hills, giant bamboo stalks, and overgrown vegetation, it was a bona fide jungle. When the path kept forking and we still hadn’t seen any crocodiles, we started to wonder if we were actually in a type of a labyrinth/Jurassic park designed to trap stupid tourists and if some sort of beast would soon be released to hunt us down. After a bit more walking, we finally saw some crocodiles… in zoo-like cages, looking very bored and sad. There were some cool looking plants and fruits, but I couldn’t even begin to identify what they actually were. A few people of the group insisted that they try crocodile meat, so we stopped at the restaurant once we found our way back to the restaurant. The consensus was that the crocodile meat was quite delicious, although I was content eating pineapple and ice cream.
After getting back into the downtown area of Ziguinchor, we decided to wander the streets for a little while and do some exploring. We found a man (he actually found us) who is a Senegalese musician who lived in Seattle for the past ten years. We also found the major market, where machete options were abundant and no fruit was to be found. The number of churches in Ziguinchor surprised me, because in Dakar I see so many mosques.
The next day we ate some local cuisine for breakfast/lunch. We went to a veritable hole in the wall restaurant… you walked through the door to see one big table surrounded by benches, with the stove and man preparing the food sitting at one side of the table. We sat down and ordered egg sandwiches and café au laits. I could not have even imagined a more appetizing breakfast at that point in time, the sandwich and coffee just held so much promise. We walked out of the restaurant quite pleased that we each only spent about $1.50 for a giant sandwich and coffee. We walked back through the city to the harbor, ready to get back on the same boat we had just gotten off about 28 hours previous. As my bag made the metal detector beep violently, I gave a concerned look to the guard, whom I expected to search my bag. Instead, he laughed loudly, said, “Bon voyage!” and waved me on my way. Apparently 20-year-old American girls do not pose a threat to Senegalese ships.
That evening on board the ship I witnessed one of the most breathtaking sunsets I have ever seen. The sun turned a shade of hot pink that the water brilliantly reflected. I just couldn’t get over how happy I felt, being in such great company witnessing such a beautiful event. I made several declarations about how much I loved ships and how I wished I could take them more often. I stopped short when my stomach began to churn… that egg sandwich was starting to bite me back. When I went to my seat to try to sleep, all I could feel was the rocking of the ship, making my stomach angrier and angrier. I kept telling myself that I was not going to get sick, and I continued to tell myself that for the next several hours until the ferry arrived in Dakar.
I managed to make it back to Soso’s house before upchucking all my stomach’s contents and, surprise surprise, getting a horrible case of diarrhea. I managed to get myself to school only to turn around and go back home after one class. Soso kept laughing, saying, “Haha the boat made you sick!” I did not have the patience or the energy to explain that I was not seasick, but that the egg sandwich ripped apart my entire digestive system. When stomach cramps and diarrhea did not relent by Wednesday, I went to the pharmacy to explain my plight. The pharmacist said, “Well, you should really see a doctor, but here take these.” I laughed to myself as I read, in big bold letters, “Prescription Only,” on each of the boxes.
Thankfully I regained some of my health in time to celebrate Thanksgiving Senegalese-style on Thursday. The student government on campus sponsored this event for all students of Suffolk University-Dakar. It was at the Club Atlantique, which is kind of like a fancy sports/dining/pool club for wealthy people and expatriates in Dakar. I have never had a Thanksgiving dinner poolside, next to a fully stocked bar, with hip-hop music blasting and scantily clad girls dancing and running around. A few of us wondered if we should let them know for future reference that Thanksgiving is supposed to be a wholesome family meal. One of my friends considered asking the DJ to put on some Christmas music. At this point in time, I have taken a “When in Rome” approach to living in Senegal; if a Senegalese Thanksgiving includes raunchy hip-hop music, then it looks like that is how I’m going to celebrate.
This past Friday we left on our final overnight program trip. All of CIEE went to Saint-Louis, city in the very north of Senegal, practically bordering on Mauritania. This city was the capital of Senegal during French colonial rule and shortly after Senegal’s independence. Before arriving in Saint-Louis, we spent a night in the desert. This was an extremely bizarre desert, consisting of grouping giant sand dunes that seemed to be placed in the middle of an area with a lot of vegetation. I never knew how much fun sand dunes could be… I had been to beach sand dunes before, but never desert sand dunes. The sand’s texture was so soft, it was almost powdery. We also got to ride camels! I enjoyed my camel ride, although I could never imagine crossing the Sahara on one. The night sky from the desert was like nothing I have ever seen before. A group of us left our camp and climbed up on one of the high sand dunes to look at the stars. We stayed there, staring at the sky, for quite a while without saying a word.
I awoke in my tent Saturday morning to an unfamiliar feeling: I was cold. Cold! For the first time in so long! We had to get up before the sunrise since we had a lot on the day’s itinerary. We had the option of walking or taking trucks back to the area where we would catch the buses. Feeling ambitious (and rather out of shape from lack of exercise), I decided to make the one-hour trek back. Nothing compares to watching a sunrise while walking through a West African desert. I wish I could do that every morning.
After taking a pirogue tour through a bird reserve, we arrived in downtown Saint-Louis. Every aspect of the city emanated Frenchness. All of the buildings were of a 19th century French colonial style. Most of the roads had French names and the city was structured around a large rectangular garden, something I had never before seen in Senegal. In addition to the architecture and layout of the city, there were tons of toubabs around. I didn’t see a giant market like in Dakar or other Senegalese cities, but I did see a ton of touristy shops selling all things “African”. I feel like I should act like I was above shopping at these stores, but I must admit it was very handy to have a bunch of souvenirs in one place; it made buying gifts a whole lot easier. I watched some French tourists pay a ton of money for some purses, and then suavely walked in and refused to pay more than a quarter of what they paid for the same stuff. By this point I know the art of negotiating prices with vendors quite well – when you don’t get the price you want, just walk away, and the vendor will chase you down the street and concede. I also hated to admit that I found the city aesthetically pleasing… I should have bashed the architecture and gardens because they are concrete evidence of European imperialism and colonization, but I honestly was enamored by everything. We had a guest professor/lecturer come to give us a tour and history of the city. I ate two of the best meals I’ve had in Senegal at our hotel: a veggie omelette/salad and a quiche. I also took a hot shower for the first time in three months… I forgot how wonderful hot showers are.
In a week’s time I got to see the most southern and most northern points of Senegal. Putting Ziguinchor and Saint-Louis side by side, I would never have guessed that they belonged to the same country, let alone the same region of Africa. Both cities were beautiful in very different ways, and I can say that I would choose either city over Dakar.
In other news, Senegal and Mauritania made Al Qaeda angry by arresting some of its members that were in the two countries. I do not know the entire story so I may have part of that wrong, but there have been fighter jets flying around Dakar for the past few weeks. I have heard that they belong to the Senegalese military and are there for defense purposes only. I hardly even notice them anymore, but they are rather noisy and there is something a bit ominous about three fighter planes jetting across the sky every half an hour.
I will be back in the States in exactly three weeks! Unfortunately I have a lot of work to get done before then.
Ciao ciao!
Thursday, November 18, 2010
La fête du Tabaski
Yesterday was the Islamic holiday Tabaski. As I had never heard of this holiday before coming to Senegal, I'm going to guess that a lot of people potentially reading this have no idea what it is, either. This holiday is based off of the story of Abraham in the Old Testament, where God tells Abraham to sacrifice his son, and then at the last minute God gives him a sheep to sacrifice instead. To recognize this holiday, each Muslim family sacrifices a sheep. As Dakar is mostly Muslim, there are a lot of families who practice this. Many families also choose to sacrifice more than one sheep. One student's family sacrificed seven sheep, even though there are only eight people in her family. Multiply several sheep by thousands of families in Dakar... That is a lot of sacrificed sheep.
Needless to say, I had not been looking forward to this holiday. My host family is Catholic, so we would not be celebrating Tabaski. I know that I should have felt as though I was missing out on a great cultural experience, but in all honesty I was pretty relieved. I decided to take advantage of this day to sit and relax in my room and read, perhaps get a bit ahead on future papers.
I quickly learned, however, that Tabaski is not something that can be avoided. I woke up to a chorus of braying sheep. I had to run an errand shortly after waking up, and I wasn't even outside my front door when I saw my neighbors going in for their first kill, with three other sheep standing by. As I walked along the road, there were already puddles of sheep blood developing along the curbs. Everyone passing me smiled, saying, "Bonne fête!" For the rest of the day, all I could smell and hear was sheep meat being grilled. By the end of the day, the cacophony of braying was replaced by an eerie silence.
I realized I could not look at this holiday through the lens of a vegetarian American with a Christian upbringing. I sat in my room, pondering the holiday of Tabaski. I felt that looking at this holiday with a negative light would make me seem religiously intolerant or close-minded. To try to put myself at peace with this holiday, I decided to compare it with Christmas. Tabaski is supposed to be the largest holiday of the year for Muslims. I think it is safe to say that Christmas is the largest holiday of the year for Christians. Both holidays have biblical/koranic roots, as Tabaski is based off of the story of Abraham I mentioned earlier and the act of giving presents on Christmas is based off of the story of the wise men giving presents to baby Jesus. Is there really that much of a difference between those two acts, sacrificing sheep (to later feast on them) and giving presents, if their intentions are to recognize religious events? Well, I reasoned, killing multiple sheep for one family is excessive, not to mention sheep are living beings who are being subjected to pain. Then, however, I thought about the excessiveness that takes place with Christmas in the United States. The entire holiday has been so commercialized and so blown out of proportion that for many people the religious meaning is lost. Is one really worse than the other? I concluded that though I would not personally be able to sacrifice a sheep, nor would I want to eat one, I cannot criticize the holiday. Not to mention, Thanksgiving is coming up next week and pretty much every American family will be eating a turkey. The only difference is that the families will be buying an already killed and processed turkey. At least the sheep taking part in Tabaski had somewhat cage-free, enjoyable lives before being sacrificed. I fear to know how poor the quality of life was for many of the turkeys being eaten by Americans on Thanksgiving. Chances are, those turkeys were bred and raised in factory farms and then were slaughtered and processed by machines. Although witnessing a sheep about to be sacrificed was not pleasant by any means, I have to give the people here credit for actually knowing the animal and the amount of labor it takes to get the meat.
After this introspective, rationalizing session on Tabaski, I found myself to be much more at peace with the holiday. I then finished the final Harry Potter book and Nervous Conditions, a novel for my African literature class. Finally knowing the ending of Harry Potter is bittersweet; it is sad to think that the saga is over. I am insanely jealous of everyone who gets to see the first part of the seventh movie tonight/in the near future. Senegal does not have movie theaters that show Western films, so I have to wait until my return to the US to see it. As far as the other book for my literature class goes, it was just a repetition of the themes from other works we have read in that class; basically, colonialism/Western influence is evil and has tainted African culture.
Upon thinking about all of these holidays emphasizing food, I decided to make a list of all the foods I miss from the US. To give a brief snapshot of what the list looked like, it contained (but was not limited to) the following: whole wheat bread, tomato sauce, blueberry pancakes (with real maple syrup, of course), macaroni and cheese with ketchup (childhood nostalgia food), blue gatorade, peppermint mocha lattes, tofu pad thai, chipotle veggie burritos, sunshine patties (the BEST veggie burgers ever), soy milk, oatmeal, almond butter, hummus and pita bread, strawberries, REAL orange juice, foods involving pumpkin, balsamic vinegrette, grilled sesame tofu as found in the Whole Foods salad bar, granola, and Trader Joes veggie fried rice.
I then tried to make a latte with relative success. My ingredients for a Senegalese latte: hot water, powdered milk, ovaltine, instant coffee, and sugar cubes. Not as bad as it sounds, really.
With just over a month to go, I find myself thinking of home more and more. This bothers me, because I really should be embracing the time I have left and making the most out of it. As the clocks went back an hour in the States, I am now an additional hour ahead. It is funny that this makes home seem even farther away, even though it is obviously geographically the same distance. Apparently our study abroad program is having some little gathering for Thanksgiving, so that should be nice. In many ways my friends here have become a big family to me, as we have all gone through similar experiences over the past three months, being Americans in Senegal.
That's all for now.
Léegi léegi!
Needless to say, I had not been looking forward to this holiday. My host family is Catholic, so we would not be celebrating Tabaski. I know that I should have felt as though I was missing out on a great cultural experience, but in all honesty I was pretty relieved. I decided to take advantage of this day to sit and relax in my room and read, perhaps get a bit ahead on future papers.
I quickly learned, however, that Tabaski is not something that can be avoided. I woke up to a chorus of braying sheep. I had to run an errand shortly after waking up, and I wasn't even outside my front door when I saw my neighbors going in for their first kill, with three other sheep standing by. As I walked along the road, there were already puddles of sheep blood developing along the curbs. Everyone passing me smiled, saying, "Bonne fête!" For the rest of the day, all I could smell and hear was sheep meat being grilled. By the end of the day, the cacophony of braying was replaced by an eerie silence.
I realized I could not look at this holiday through the lens of a vegetarian American with a Christian upbringing. I sat in my room, pondering the holiday of Tabaski. I felt that looking at this holiday with a negative light would make me seem religiously intolerant or close-minded. To try to put myself at peace with this holiday, I decided to compare it with Christmas. Tabaski is supposed to be the largest holiday of the year for Muslims. I think it is safe to say that Christmas is the largest holiday of the year for Christians. Both holidays have biblical/koranic roots, as Tabaski is based off of the story of Abraham I mentioned earlier and the act of giving presents on Christmas is based off of the story of the wise men giving presents to baby Jesus. Is there really that much of a difference between those two acts, sacrificing sheep (to later feast on them) and giving presents, if their intentions are to recognize religious events? Well, I reasoned, killing multiple sheep for one family is excessive, not to mention sheep are living beings who are being subjected to pain. Then, however, I thought about the excessiveness that takes place with Christmas in the United States. The entire holiday has been so commercialized and so blown out of proportion that for many people the religious meaning is lost. Is one really worse than the other? I concluded that though I would not personally be able to sacrifice a sheep, nor would I want to eat one, I cannot criticize the holiday. Not to mention, Thanksgiving is coming up next week and pretty much every American family will be eating a turkey. The only difference is that the families will be buying an already killed and processed turkey. At least the sheep taking part in Tabaski had somewhat cage-free, enjoyable lives before being sacrificed. I fear to know how poor the quality of life was for many of the turkeys being eaten by Americans on Thanksgiving. Chances are, those turkeys were bred and raised in factory farms and then were slaughtered and processed by machines. Although witnessing a sheep about to be sacrificed was not pleasant by any means, I have to give the people here credit for actually knowing the animal and the amount of labor it takes to get the meat.
After this introspective, rationalizing session on Tabaski, I found myself to be much more at peace with the holiday. I then finished the final Harry Potter book and Nervous Conditions, a novel for my African literature class. Finally knowing the ending of Harry Potter is bittersweet; it is sad to think that the saga is over. I am insanely jealous of everyone who gets to see the first part of the seventh movie tonight/in the near future. Senegal does not have movie theaters that show Western films, so I have to wait until my return to the US to see it. As far as the other book for my literature class goes, it was just a repetition of the themes from other works we have read in that class; basically, colonialism/Western influence is evil and has tainted African culture.
Upon thinking about all of these holidays emphasizing food, I decided to make a list of all the foods I miss from the US. To give a brief snapshot of what the list looked like, it contained (but was not limited to) the following: whole wheat bread, tomato sauce, blueberry pancakes (with real maple syrup, of course), macaroni and cheese with ketchup (childhood nostalgia food), blue gatorade, peppermint mocha lattes, tofu pad thai, chipotle veggie burritos, sunshine patties (the BEST veggie burgers ever), soy milk, oatmeal, almond butter, hummus and pita bread, strawberries, REAL orange juice, foods involving pumpkin, balsamic vinegrette, grilled sesame tofu as found in the Whole Foods salad bar, granola, and Trader Joes veggie fried rice.
I then tried to make a latte with relative success. My ingredients for a Senegalese latte: hot water, powdered milk, ovaltine, instant coffee, and sugar cubes. Not as bad as it sounds, really.
With just over a month to go, I find myself thinking of home more and more. This bothers me, because I really should be embracing the time I have left and making the most out of it. As the clocks went back an hour in the States, I am now an additional hour ahead. It is funny that this makes home seem even farther away, even though it is obviously geographically the same distance. Apparently our study abroad program is having some little gathering for Thanksgiving, so that should be nice. In many ways my friends here have become a big family to me, as we have all gone through similar experiences over the past three months, being Americans in Senegal.
That's all for now.
Léegi léegi!
Monday, November 15, 2010
Dëgguma dara
I realized just now that writing this blog entry is going to be extremely difficult. This past week, the rural visits, turned out to be one of the most challenging experiences I have ever had. At the same time, I learned so much and I feel very accomplished, yet I don’t know if I will be able to adequately find the words to describe it. Nevertheless, I shall try.
As I wrote in my previous entry, my rural visit was with the organization APROFES, a group working for women’s empowerment in Senegal. During our pre-departure meeting, I asked Victoria, one of the directors of the CIEE program, if my hosts would be French-speaking. She replied that they would definitely speak French because APROFES is a well-established organization, so the people working there will have been educated in the French system. I was relieved to hear this, because I know very little Wolof (even though one of my classes is Beginning Wolof) and absolutely no Zarare, the other local language. Two other students, Claire and Molly, were also assigned to this host. Although we did not know what specific projects we would be working on or observing, we knew that we would spend some time in a village and see how the organization operates at the grassroots level.
We arrived in Kaolack on Monday after a three-hour sept place (seven-seat taxi) ride. We went to the APROFES office, where we sat around doing nothing for a while and ate a delicious lunch they provided. One of the women brought us to a bank that works with the organization to distribute microfinance loans to women, although the most interesting part of this little field trip was seeing part of downtown Kaolack, not the bank itself. We got back to the office where we were given an itinerary of sorts for the week. Each of us, it turns out, would be dropped off at a different village the following morning and spend the following three nights there. I was apprehensive to be all alone in a village, but I felt like I was in good hands with the organization. That night I slept at a host family’s house, which was really glamorous and snazzy, even more so than my house in Dakar. I tried to rest well, mentally preparing myself for the upcoming days of village life.
The next morning, bright and early, a jeep pulled up to the house to take me to the village. To my dismay, I quickly learned that an APROFES employee would not accompany me to the village, and I was once again reminded that Molly, Claire, and I would each have our own villages. Thus, I would be entering this village toute seule. At least they would be French speakers, as I was told prior to leaving Dakar, right? We drove farther and farther away from Kaolack, and then turned off the paved main road and started driving down a dirt road. A while later after driving down a twisting and turning dirt road, I realized that we were really going into the bush. We stopped at a village full of huts and donkey carts, and the driver told me that we had arrived at my destination. He told one of the women something in Wolof as he set down my bag and a jug of bottled water. I have since concluded that he must have said something along the lines of, “Here’s a toubab. She’ll be here for three days, she doesn’t speak Wolof, and she doesn’t eat meat, chicken, or fish. Have fun!”
I stood there, and within ten seconds I learned that nobody in the village spoke a word of French. Oh mon dieu… this is going to be the longest three days of my life. Soon after saying Salaamaleekum they figured out that my Wolof abilities were very sub-par. I hadn’t even packed my Wolof textbook because I thought I would be dealing with French speakers. The only Wolof reference point I had with me was a sheet of paper from when I was studying Wolof a few days prior that had some verb translations on it. They kept pointing to me and saying to each other, “Dëggul dara!” which I understood, rather ironically, as it means, “She doesn’t understand anything!” I also understood, “Lekkul dara!,” or, “She doesn’t eat anything!” In my Wolof class, we have learned a lot about verbs, but very few nouns. Thus, when some Wolof finally started to come to me, my speech was limited to saying: “I eat” or “I sit” or “I go” and the like. Of course, the people in the village fell victim to the human tendency to assume someone is stupid if they do not speak your language. My host mom in the village thus held my hand any time we walked anywhere and did very obnoxious charades every time she tried to explain something to me.
My host family consisted of an older man, three women, and at least a dozen kids ranging from infancy to adulthood. I never counted, but at one point in time I saw 20 kids who could potentially be offspring from this polygamous relationship. Some of them may have been other kids in the village belonging to other families, though. The family’s compound also had two cows, a donkey, two horses, many chickens, at least five sheep, and probably ten goats. The compound was quite big; there were many huts and a lot of field space. The husband had his own hut, and each of the women had her own hut where her respective children also slept. The older sons each had their own hut as well. Gender roles and dynamics were very apparent. The women and girls worked all day from dawn past dusk in the fields, cooking food, cleaning and doing laundry, collecting water, and taking care of babies and little kids. The majority of women in the village had a baby strapped to her back. The men and boys, on the other hand, sat around all day doing very little. I saw some of the boys herding the animals and directly donkey carts, but I saw them mostly sitting under mango trees and eating peanuts.
Shortly after being dropped off, after the initial swarm of people surrounding me and asking me questions I did not understand in Wolof dispersed, I pondered how on Earth I would last three whole days and three nights in the village. As I took in my surroundings, I felt culture shock hit me like a brick wall. I grabbed my book, which I hoped could be an escape and a temporary return to the familiar, but people did not respond well to me reading. I had heard that reading was considered rude by some Senegalese people, since it is a very individual activity, and the culture places great importance on sharing and bonding with others. I realized that the negative attitude towards the book came mostly from the fact that the book was a very foreign object to them. All of the women and some of the boys were illiterate, and even the ones who were literate did not have access to materials such as books for leisure. In fact, even if they were literate and had books to read, there wouldn’t be any time to read, because they (the women and girls at least) are always working. I put away the book, and was at that point at a complete loss for what to do. When I approached a few kids, some of them started crying and running in the opposite direction. Simply my presence made babies and toddlers cry. Everything about me was foreign to them though, so I wasn’t surprised.
As lunchtime approached, a giant concern struck me: I would have to eat around the communal bowl. Although many of my fellow students have had to do this with their host families in Dakar all semester, Soso and I always eat in the Western fashion, off of individual plates with forks and knives. I really hoped that I would not have to eat with my hands. I still cannot not think of how unsanitary the concept of it is… even if everyone washes their hands first, people still lick their hands, then stick their hands back in the bowl of rice and shuffle things around… essentially, everyone is consuming each other’s saliva. Please excuse me if I sound culturally insensitive. When they said, “Aisha, kay, lekk” (Aisha [my Senegalese name], come and eat), I walked towards their eating area. They each dipped their hands in the same bowl of water to prep for eating. They brought out the bowl, and offered me a spoon, to which I was quite grateful for. Inside the bowl there was rice, two fish in the middle, and some cut up mangoes. Since the fish was still completely intact, it was easy to avoid, and the rice and mango combination proved to be quite delicious. There were kids with runny noses eating from the bowl who would wipe their noses and then stick that same hand in the bowl. I decided it would be better to just not think about it and keep my eyes on my little section of the bowl. With so many people eating from this bowl, I didn’t want to eat too much, because I would feel bad for taking food that would go to someone else who needs it more. They insisted that I eat more and more until finally I could not manage to eat any more rice. I walked away quite relieved that I had jumped over that hurdle.
Later that afternoon they brought me out to the peanut fields. One of the women carried a little stool with her, which she put on the ground, pointed at, and looked at me: “Togg.” Sit. I sat down and felt weird watching them work. So I put my bag down and started to glean the peanuts along with the rest of them. After a little while, I started working up a sweat, but I found so much tranquility in the process of pulling up peanut plants and picking up loose peanuts that I hardly even noticed. I felt at ease for the first time that day. I did not need to know the language to communicate with the other people surrounding me. When I walked up to one of the women to give her my handfuls of peanuts to put in her sack, she would smile, and that was all the communication I needed. I didn’t have to watch out for any cultural barriers or sensitivities, all I had to do was connect peanuts. I find working with the Earth to be very therapeutic. As the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, my brain that had been spinning in circles all day finally started to reach an equilibrium, giving me back my sanity. One of the women said: “Noppalu.” Rest. So, I went and sat down. As I did so, two girls a little younger than me started to tease me that I wasn’t working. I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but I heard “Toubab”, so I was the only one they could have been talking about, and then I heard “liggeyul,” which means, “doesn’t work.” I didn’t have the vocabulary to explain that one of the women told me to sit down and call it a night, so I just tried to ignore the girls.
I had to walk back to the compound with the girls who had been teasing me. They would start chastising me if I did not properly greet someone we passed, but then if I did greet someone or say something in Wolof, they would just repeat what I said in a mocking tone and start laughing. I tried not to show that it was upsetting me, because that probably would have just egged them on. So, I started to say “Dëgguma,” which means, “I don’t understand,” every time they would say something to me in Wolof. Eventually they just gave up trying to make me upset. My host mom asked if I wanted to take a shower, handed me a bucket of water, and pointed behind a shed. When I later said I needed to use a toilet, I was hoping for at least an outhouse, but I found a hole in the ground.
For some reason I was surprised by the lack of electricity. I guess it was not the lack of electricity so much as it was the darkness of everything once night fell. I found the darkness comforting, as though I was taken out of the spotlight. We ate in the dark and everyone finished up his or her chores in the dark. I was served two dinners that night, as I had eaten around the bowl not knowing that they were preparing an omelette for me, which I ate afterwards. I went to bed earlier than everyone else, which was weird, but I was exhausted and it is not like I could converse or anything with anyone.
I realized that if it weren’t for the language barrier, I could adjust to village life pretty well. Americans pay to rent campsites and cabins so they can do what the people in this Senegalese village do for free. I like doing everything and living almost completely outside. I like going to sleep and waking up to the smell of a campfire. I even like working in the fields. I don’t need electricity, and I am sure with a little time I would adjust to the lack of running water as well. I do not, however, support polygamy or forcing girls to get married when they are still teenagers. And, I feel that it is every person’s right to receive at least a primary education. I also would need time to read and a large supply of books.
The following two days were equally as challenging, but I could feel myself gain strength as the hours passed. I didn’t freak out if someone wouldn’t stop speaking to me in a language I couldn’t understand. I learned to just go with the flow. I was concerned by the lack of women’s empowerment work I was doing. Although helping out the village by picking peanuts off plants was not a waste of time, it was not what I went there to do. My host mom kept saying she was the president of that village’s APROFES chapter, but I did not know enough Wolof to actually ask her what projects they were working on. She showed me a community garden with vegetable plants, fruit trees, a somewhat fancy irrigation system, and a brand new well, so I figured that the garden had something to do with the organization. At the end of my third day, a woman from the APROFES office in Kaolack came to meet with all the village women involved with the organization. I sat in on the meeting, and although it was conducted in Wolof, it was interesting to see the hierarchies within the organization and the formalities of the meeting. The woman in charge from the organization spoke French and told me that she was following up on a microcredit loan APROFES had given the village. She also had asked the women what kind of training they would benefit from. The women wanted basic literacy training and business training, which the organization will hopefully be able to provide in the near future. Unfortunately this woman did not stay long, so it was back to understanding next to nothing anyone told me.
After the initial shock of not being able to communicate at all with anyone from the village, the next most appalling thing to me was the level of poverty this village faced. All of the kids, and even some of the adults wore second-hand clothes that were obviously dropped off by a goodwill-type organization from the United States or Europe. Most of these clothes were rags at this point, and most of the babies and small toddlers didn’t even wear pants. There were also some public health issues I noticed, particularly in the way infants were handled. I did not intend to enter this village with a patronizing or an I-know-better-than-you attitude… some things really concerned me, though. I saw newborn infants strapped to women’s backs, with no neck support whatsoever. The babies’ heads were bent completely backwards, bouncing up and down, and the women went about their work. I also saw some frighteningly small babies. Many infants and small toddlers seemed to have respiratory problems – I could literally hear all the phlegm trapped in their airways. The smaller children all seemed to have runny noses and colds. People use their hands to eat everything, and I didn’t see soap anywhere. I could tell that malnutrition was an issue because many of the kids and small children had outward-protruding bellies although they were skinny otherwise.
Women would often give me their baby or toddler to hold (that is, if they did not immediately start crying) and then tell me in all seriousness to take their child back to America with me. The first few times that this happened I was really hoping that they were just joking so I could forcibly laugh and then give them back their child. But then when I said “Déedeet,” or, “No,” I would feel cold-hearted because I could not provide an explanation along with it to tell them why it simply would not be feasible for me to take their baby with me. People constantly asking to use my phone or asking me where my money was also bothered me: “Ana xaalis bi?” When I would reply that I didn’t have money, “Amuma xaalis,” they would regard me with an incredulous expression on their face. I carried around all my valuables and money in a purse with me at all times after being asked where my money was over and over again. They also wanted me to take tons of pictures. When I reviewed the pictures at the end of the stay, I couldn’t identify half of the people because I took so many pictures. I did find it very interesting that they knew I would have a camera even before I had a chance to show them. Perhaps all toubabs that visit this village carry cameras with them. I was also asked for food a lot, and I never even showed anyone that I had a stash of fruit in my bag. I guess all toubabs carry fruit with them, too. I did give my host family Nutella as a little token of my appreciation for their hospitality. They had never seen Nutella before, nor did they know what to do with it. I explained it is for eating, so they opened the package and put a little bit of Nutella in each person’s palm. I tried to explain it was for bread, but they seemed so content eating it their way that I decided not to disturb the peace.
I was commonly asked, “Ana jëkkër?” which means, “Where is your husband?” When I said that I was not married, I would get some funny responses. If it were a woman, she would typically be astounded and ask me why I did not have a husband. If it were a man, he would then offer to be my husband. A few of the women tried to recruit husbands for me in the village. The two girls around my age who kept teasing me would point to a random guy about my age and ask, “Sa jëkkër?” or, “Your husband?” This would really embarrass the victimized guy, especially when I said no. Finally one night I told the two girls, “Soxlawuma jëkkër,” or, “I don’t need a man.” I explained as best I could that I study and I work, I am independent, there is no need for me to have a husband. They started clapping and shaking my hand when I said this. I realized that I may have destroyed the very fabric of their society just then and inspired rebellion in these two girls. …I was supposed to be working on women’s empowerment, right?
On the morning of my fourth day in the village, I woke up with mixed emotions. I was highly anticipating the arrival of the jeep to bring me back to Kaolack, but a few of the women and girls had really started to grow on me. Although the previous three days had been some of the longest days of my life, it was a learning and growing experience, and a few of them had been really supportive in the process. They accompanied me on a final stroll through the village. We stumbled upon a man who spoke French. We had a conversation with him as a translator between our two parties. The women said that they really liked me and they were sad I was leaving, and I could feel my heartstrings being pulled. The jeep soon showed up, with Molly and Claire already inside. I said, “Jerejëf, ba beneen yoon!” to the village as I climbed inside. As we pulled away, I was so happy to leave the village on a positive note, and I also felt so incredibly accomplished. I also realized that that was the longest I had ever gone without speaking a word of English, and for that I was proud as well.
Although I felt very helpless for most of the time I spent in the village, looking back on it, I have concluded that it was a necessary experience to fully learn Senegalese culture and society. It was a feat that was not like anything I have ever accomplished before. I have said this several times now in this blog, but you really learn the most when put in situations outside of your comfort zone. The people in the village took me in as one of their own, no questions asked, and although there were some incidents with money and that, their hospitality was incredible. Despite the poverty and health issues, they were so happy and welcoming. Even the stern looking elders shook my hand and greeted me with a smile. I am very pleased to be a student in a study abroad program that not only encourages, but also requires experiences like this. This past week has taught me more than a semester’s worth of knowledge in international relations or culture and society or whatever field applies.
On a more solemn note, I returned to Dakar to find out that my $100 pair of Chaco’s was stolen. Someone broke into Soso’s back porch and took everything. I am going to be looking at everyone’s feet when walking through my neighborhood from now on. If I find those shoes, I do not know what I will do… but I want them back. I keep reminding myself that it is not the end of the world, they are just shoes. And compared to some of the other thefts targeted towards students, it could be much worse.
But, on a happier note, two Moroccan men who live in my neighborhood asked me if I was a student at Sciences Po. When I replied, “Non! Je suis americaine!” they were genuinely surprised and told me that they have never met an American who speaks such great French. This seemed a little exaggerated to me, but, yay! I can speak French!
As I wrote in my previous entry, my rural visit was with the organization APROFES, a group working for women’s empowerment in Senegal. During our pre-departure meeting, I asked Victoria, one of the directors of the CIEE program, if my hosts would be French-speaking. She replied that they would definitely speak French because APROFES is a well-established organization, so the people working there will have been educated in the French system. I was relieved to hear this, because I know very little Wolof (even though one of my classes is Beginning Wolof) and absolutely no Zarare, the other local language. Two other students, Claire and Molly, were also assigned to this host. Although we did not know what specific projects we would be working on or observing, we knew that we would spend some time in a village and see how the organization operates at the grassroots level.
We arrived in Kaolack on Monday after a three-hour sept place (seven-seat taxi) ride. We went to the APROFES office, where we sat around doing nothing for a while and ate a delicious lunch they provided. One of the women brought us to a bank that works with the organization to distribute microfinance loans to women, although the most interesting part of this little field trip was seeing part of downtown Kaolack, not the bank itself. We got back to the office where we were given an itinerary of sorts for the week. Each of us, it turns out, would be dropped off at a different village the following morning and spend the following three nights there. I was apprehensive to be all alone in a village, but I felt like I was in good hands with the organization. That night I slept at a host family’s house, which was really glamorous and snazzy, even more so than my house in Dakar. I tried to rest well, mentally preparing myself for the upcoming days of village life.
The next morning, bright and early, a jeep pulled up to the house to take me to the village. To my dismay, I quickly learned that an APROFES employee would not accompany me to the village, and I was once again reminded that Molly, Claire, and I would each have our own villages. Thus, I would be entering this village toute seule. At least they would be French speakers, as I was told prior to leaving Dakar, right? We drove farther and farther away from Kaolack, and then turned off the paved main road and started driving down a dirt road. A while later after driving down a twisting and turning dirt road, I realized that we were really going into the bush. We stopped at a village full of huts and donkey carts, and the driver told me that we had arrived at my destination. He told one of the women something in Wolof as he set down my bag and a jug of bottled water. I have since concluded that he must have said something along the lines of, “Here’s a toubab. She’ll be here for three days, she doesn’t speak Wolof, and she doesn’t eat meat, chicken, or fish. Have fun!”
I stood there, and within ten seconds I learned that nobody in the village spoke a word of French. Oh mon dieu… this is going to be the longest three days of my life. Soon after saying Salaamaleekum they figured out that my Wolof abilities were very sub-par. I hadn’t even packed my Wolof textbook because I thought I would be dealing with French speakers. The only Wolof reference point I had with me was a sheet of paper from when I was studying Wolof a few days prior that had some verb translations on it. They kept pointing to me and saying to each other, “Dëggul dara!” which I understood, rather ironically, as it means, “She doesn’t understand anything!” I also understood, “Lekkul dara!,” or, “She doesn’t eat anything!” In my Wolof class, we have learned a lot about verbs, but very few nouns. Thus, when some Wolof finally started to come to me, my speech was limited to saying: “I eat” or “I sit” or “I go” and the like. Of course, the people in the village fell victim to the human tendency to assume someone is stupid if they do not speak your language. My host mom in the village thus held my hand any time we walked anywhere and did very obnoxious charades every time she tried to explain something to me.
My host family consisted of an older man, three women, and at least a dozen kids ranging from infancy to adulthood. I never counted, but at one point in time I saw 20 kids who could potentially be offspring from this polygamous relationship. Some of them may have been other kids in the village belonging to other families, though. The family’s compound also had two cows, a donkey, two horses, many chickens, at least five sheep, and probably ten goats. The compound was quite big; there were many huts and a lot of field space. The husband had his own hut, and each of the women had her own hut where her respective children also slept. The older sons each had their own hut as well. Gender roles and dynamics were very apparent. The women and girls worked all day from dawn past dusk in the fields, cooking food, cleaning and doing laundry, collecting water, and taking care of babies and little kids. The majority of women in the village had a baby strapped to her back. The men and boys, on the other hand, sat around all day doing very little. I saw some of the boys herding the animals and directly donkey carts, but I saw them mostly sitting under mango trees and eating peanuts.
Shortly after being dropped off, after the initial swarm of people surrounding me and asking me questions I did not understand in Wolof dispersed, I pondered how on Earth I would last three whole days and three nights in the village. As I took in my surroundings, I felt culture shock hit me like a brick wall. I grabbed my book, which I hoped could be an escape and a temporary return to the familiar, but people did not respond well to me reading. I had heard that reading was considered rude by some Senegalese people, since it is a very individual activity, and the culture places great importance on sharing and bonding with others. I realized that the negative attitude towards the book came mostly from the fact that the book was a very foreign object to them. All of the women and some of the boys were illiterate, and even the ones who were literate did not have access to materials such as books for leisure. In fact, even if they were literate and had books to read, there wouldn’t be any time to read, because they (the women and girls at least) are always working. I put away the book, and was at that point at a complete loss for what to do. When I approached a few kids, some of them started crying and running in the opposite direction. Simply my presence made babies and toddlers cry. Everything about me was foreign to them though, so I wasn’t surprised.
As lunchtime approached, a giant concern struck me: I would have to eat around the communal bowl. Although many of my fellow students have had to do this with their host families in Dakar all semester, Soso and I always eat in the Western fashion, off of individual plates with forks and knives. I really hoped that I would not have to eat with my hands. I still cannot not think of how unsanitary the concept of it is… even if everyone washes their hands first, people still lick their hands, then stick their hands back in the bowl of rice and shuffle things around… essentially, everyone is consuming each other’s saliva. Please excuse me if I sound culturally insensitive. When they said, “Aisha, kay, lekk” (Aisha [my Senegalese name], come and eat), I walked towards their eating area. They each dipped their hands in the same bowl of water to prep for eating. They brought out the bowl, and offered me a spoon, to which I was quite grateful for. Inside the bowl there was rice, two fish in the middle, and some cut up mangoes. Since the fish was still completely intact, it was easy to avoid, and the rice and mango combination proved to be quite delicious. There were kids with runny noses eating from the bowl who would wipe their noses and then stick that same hand in the bowl. I decided it would be better to just not think about it and keep my eyes on my little section of the bowl. With so many people eating from this bowl, I didn’t want to eat too much, because I would feel bad for taking food that would go to someone else who needs it more. They insisted that I eat more and more until finally I could not manage to eat any more rice. I walked away quite relieved that I had jumped over that hurdle.
Later that afternoon they brought me out to the peanut fields. One of the women carried a little stool with her, which she put on the ground, pointed at, and looked at me: “Togg.” Sit. I sat down and felt weird watching them work. So I put my bag down and started to glean the peanuts along with the rest of them. After a little while, I started working up a sweat, but I found so much tranquility in the process of pulling up peanut plants and picking up loose peanuts that I hardly even noticed. I felt at ease for the first time that day. I did not need to know the language to communicate with the other people surrounding me. When I walked up to one of the women to give her my handfuls of peanuts to put in her sack, she would smile, and that was all the communication I needed. I didn’t have to watch out for any cultural barriers or sensitivities, all I had to do was connect peanuts. I find working with the Earth to be very therapeutic. As the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, my brain that had been spinning in circles all day finally started to reach an equilibrium, giving me back my sanity. One of the women said: “Noppalu.” Rest. So, I went and sat down. As I did so, two girls a little younger than me started to tease me that I wasn’t working. I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but I heard “Toubab”, so I was the only one they could have been talking about, and then I heard “liggeyul,” which means, “doesn’t work.” I didn’t have the vocabulary to explain that one of the women told me to sit down and call it a night, so I just tried to ignore the girls.
I had to walk back to the compound with the girls who had been teasing me. They would start chastising me if I did not properly greet someone we passed, but then if I did greet someone or say something in Wolof, they would just repeat what I said in a mocking tone and start laughing. I tried not to show that it was upsetting me, because that probably would have just egged them on. So, I started to say “Dëgguma,” which means, “I don’t understand,” every time they would say something to me in Wolof. Eventually they just gave up trying to make me upset. My host mom asked if I wanted to take a shower, handed me a bucket of water, and pointed behind a shed. When I later said I needed to use a toilet, I was hoping for at least an outhouse, but I found a hole in the ground.
For some reason I was surprised by the lack of electricity. I guess it was not the lack of electricity so much as it was the darkness of everything once night fell. I found the darkness comforting, as though I was taken out of the spotlight. We ate in the dark and everyone finished up his or her chores in the dark. I was served two dinners that night, as I had eaten around the bowl not knowing that they were preparing an omelette for me, which I ate afterwards. I went to bed earlier than everyone else, which was weird, but I was exhausted and it is not like I could converse or anything with anyone.
I realized that if it weren’t for the language barrier, I could adjust to village life pretty well. Americans pay to rent campsites and cabins so they can do what the people in this Senegalese village do for free. I like doing everything and living almost completely outside. I like going to sleep and waking up to the smell of a campfire. I even like working in the fields. I don’t need electricity, and I am sure with a little time I would adjust to the lack of running water as well. I do not, however, support polygamy or forcing girls to get married when they are still teenagers. And, I feel that it is every person’s right to receive at least a primary education. I also would need time to read and a large supply of books.
The following two days were equally as challenging, but I could feel myself gain strength as the hours passed. I didn’t freak out if someone wouldn’t stop speaking to me in a language I couldn’t understand. I learned to just go with the flow. I was concerned by the lack of women’s empowerment work I was doing. Although helping out the village by picking peanuts off plants was not a waste of time, it was not what I went there to do. My host mom kept saying she was the president of that village’s APROFES chapter, but I did not know enough Wolof to actually ask her what projects they were working on. She showed me a community garden with vegetable plants, fruit trees, a somewhat fancy irrigation system, and a brand new well, so I figured that the garden had something to do with the organization. At the end of my third day, a woman from the APROFES office in Kaolack came to meet with all the village women involved with the organization. I sat in on the meeting, and although it was conducted in Wolof, it was interesting to see the hierarchies within the organization and the formalities of the meeting. The woman in charge from the organization spoke French and told me that she was following up on a microcredit loan APROFES had given the village. She also had asked the women what kind of training they would benefit from. The women wanted basic literacy training and business training, which the organization will hopefully be able to provide in the near future. Unfortunately this woman did not stay long, so it was back to understanding next to nothing anyone told me.
After the initial shock of not being able to communicate at all with anyone from the village, the next most appalling thing to me was the level of poverty this village faced. All of the kids, and even some of the adults wore second-hand clothes that were obviously dropped off by a goodwill-type organization from the United States or Europe. Most of these clothes were rags at this point, and most of the babies and small toddlers didn’t even wear pants. There were also some public health issues I noticed, particularly in the way infants were handled. I did not intend to enter this village with a patronizing or an I-know-better-than-you attitude… some things really concerned me, though. I saw newborn infants strapped to women’s backs, with no neck support whatsoever. The babies’ heads were bent completely backwards, bouncing up and down, and the women went about their work. I also saw some frighteningly small babies. Many infants and small toddlers seemed to have respiratory problems – I could literally hear all the phlegm trapped in their airways. The smaller children all seemed to have runny noses and colds. People use their hands to eat everything, and I didn’t see soap anywhere. I could tell that malnutrition was an issue because many of the kids and small children had outward-protruding bellies although they were skinny otherwise.
Women would often give me their baby or toddler to hold (that is, if they did not immediately start crying) and then tell me in all seriousness to take their child back to America with me. The first few times that this happened I was really hoping that they were just joking so I could forcibly laugh and then give them back their child. But then when I said “Déedeet,” or, “No,” I would feel cold-hearted because I could not provide an explanation along with it to tell them why it simply would not be feasible for me to take their baby with me. People constantly asking to use my phone or asking me where my money was also bothered me: “Ana xaalis bi?” When I would reply that I didn’t have money, “Amuma xaalis,” they would regard me with an incredulous expression on their face. I carried around all my valuables and money in a purse with me at all times after being asked where my money was over and over again. They also wanted me to take tons of pictures. When I reviewed the pictures at the end of the stay, I couldn’t identify half of the people because I took so many pictures. I did find it very interesting that they knew I would have a camera even before I had a chance to show them. Perhaps all toubabs that visit this village carry cameras with them. I was also asked for food a lot, and I never even showed anyone that I had a stash of fruit in my bag. I guess all toubabs carry fruit with them, too. I did give my host family Nutella as a little token of my appreciation for their hospitality. They had never seen Nutella before, nor did they know what to do with it. I explained it is for eating, so they opened the package and put a little bit of Nutella in each person’s palm. I tried to explain it was for bread, but they seemed so content eating it their way that I decided not to disturb the peace.
I was commonly asked, “Ana jëkkër?” which means, “Where is your husband?” When I said that I was not married, I would get some funny responses. If it were a woman, she would typically be astounded and ask me why I did not have a husband. If it were a man, he would then offer to be my husband. A few of the women tried to recruit husbands for me in the village. The two girls around my age who kept teasing me would point to a random guy about my age and ask, “Sa jëkkër?” or, “Your husband?” This would really embarrass the victimized guy, especially when I said no. Finally one night I told the two girls, “Soxlawuma jëkkër,” or, “I don’t need a man.” I explained as best I could that I study and I work, I am independent, there is no need for me to have a husband. They started clapping and shaking my hand when I said this. I realized that I may have destroyed the very fabric of their society just then and inspired rebellion in these two girls. …I was supposed to be working on women’s empowerment, right?
On the morning of my fourth day in the village, I woke up with mixed emotions. I was highly anticipating the arrival of the jeep to bring me back to Kaolack, but a few of the women and girls had really started to grow on me. Although the previous three days had been some of the longest days of my life, it was a learning and growing experience, and a few of them had been really supportive in the process. They accompanied me on a final stroll through the village. We stumbled upon a man who spoke French. We had a conversation with him as a translator between our two parties. The women said that they really liked me and they were sad I was leaving, and I could feel my heartstrings being pulled. The jeep soon showed up, with Molly and Claire already inside. I said, “Jerejëf, ba beneen yoon!” to the village as I climbed inside. As we pulled away, I was so happy to leave the village on a positive note, and I also felt so incredibly accomplished. I also realized that that was the longest I had ever gone without speaking a word of English, and for that I was proud as well.
Although I felt very helpless for most of the time I spent in the village, looking back on it, I have concluded that it was a necessary experience to fully learn Senegalese culture and society. It was a feat that was not like anything I have ever accomplished before. I have said this several times now in this blog, but you really learn the most when put in situations outside of your comfort zone. The people in the village took me in as one of their own, no questions asked, and although there were some incidents with money and that, their hospitality was incredible. Despite the poverty and health issues, they were so happy and welcoming. Even the stern looking elders shook my hand and greeted me with a smile. I am very pleased to be a student in a study abroad program that not only encourages, but also requires experiences like this. This past week has taught me more than a semester’s worth of knowledge in international relations or culture and society or whatever field applies.
On a more solemn note, I returned to Dakar to find out that my $100 pair of Chaco’s was stolen. Someone broke into Soso’s back porch and took everything. I am going to be looking at everyone’s feet when walking through my neighborhood from now on. If I find those shoes, I do not know what I will do… but I want them back. I keep reminding myself that it is not the end of the world, they are just shoes. And compared to some of the other thefts targeted towards students, it could be much worse.
But, on a happier note, two Moroccan men who live in my neighborhood asked me if I was a student at Sciences Po. When I replied, “Non! Je suis americaine!” they were genuinely surprised and told me that they have never met an American who speaks such great French. This seemed a little exaggerated to me, but, yay! I can speak French!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Les pensées
So, I feel like I should update, as it has been a week, but I have very little to write about... hmmm...
Well, first of all, it should be noted that I will be traveling to a more remote region of Senegal the 7th-13th, where I will not have internet. Thus, do not expect me to immediately reply to any emails during that time. During this week, I will be working with the organization Association pour la Promotion de la Femme Sénégalaise (APROFES) and staying in a smaller village near Kaolack, Senegal. This is a women's empowerment organization that does a wide variety of projects including education programs and microfinancing. I'm not entirely sure what specifically I'll be doing, but I'll be sure to write about it when I get back! Other people in CIEE are staying with Peace Corps volunteers and then others are staying in villages, doing work like community health or environmental education.
I would also like to note that I am on the sixth Harry Potter book at this point: Le Prince de Sang-Melé. I registered for classes for next semester, too. It should be a very interesting while challenging semester. I will be taking International Economic Politics, Analysis of US Foreign Policy, Microeconomics, and then two Honors colloquia, one about the history and culture of Istanbul and the other about the European Union. It will be weird to not be taking a French class, but I was not thrilled with the ones offered and I think after this semester I will be needing "une petite pause" from French.
I also have basically given up all hope that I will reach full health this semester. Just when I think all will be well, a bout of diarrhea or some crazy dizziness hits me and it is back to square one. I have been exercising, although not too intensely nor too often as I am sick so much, which has definitely improved my mental health. The mood swings I experience here are absolutely insane. When I am in a good mood, something really depressing will come my way, and then I will fall into a bad mood. Then other times, I get so frustrated by little things like the attendant on a car rapide not giving me back my proper change and pretending he can't understand me when I call him out for it. It does work both ways though, as many times I have been either depressed about something or angry and then I come home and Soso will do something to make me laugh. I guess having more control over emotions is something that comes with time when leaving comforts of the developed world. Or maybe it is something one has to force him or herself to learn. Either way, there is no rest for the weak.
Also, after this semester there is no way I will ever look at rice the same way again, or white pasta. Baguettes have been growing on me though. I often feel helpless when it comes to eating healthily... For breakfast and dinner it is generally all really simple carbohydrates, sometimes I get vegetables with dinner, though not always. Lunch, which I buy, I try to eat fruits and nuts and yogurt but even after days of constantly eating those things I have grown weary. The problem, and this is probably a public health problem in general, is that healthy food is just so much more expensive than regular food. The cheapest salad I have found at a restaurant is $5, and compared to the fried egg on a baguette sandwich that costs $1, it is easier to choose the latter.
On a more positive note, I spent my first day of November at the beach... pretty sure the only time I've ever gone to the beach in November!
I promise my next post will be more interesting!
Ciao ciao!
Well, first of all, it should be noted that I will be traveling to a more remote region of Senegal the 7th-13th, where I will not have internet. Thus, do not expect me to immediately reply to any emails during that time. During this week, I will be working with the organization Association pour la Promotion de la Femme Sénégalaise (APROFES) and staying in a smaller village near Kaolack, Senegal. This is a women's empowerment organization that does a wide variety of projects including education programs and microfinancing. I'm not entirely sure what specifically I'll be doing, but I'll be sure to write about it when I get back! Other people in CIEE are staying with Peace Corps volunteers and then others are staying in villages, doing work like community health or environmental education.
I would also like to note that I am on the sixth Harry Potter book at this point: Le Prince de Sang-Melé. I registered for classes for next semester, too. It should be a very interesting while challenging semester. I will be taking International Economic Politics, Analysis of US Foreign Policy, Microeconomics, and then two Honors colloquia, one about the history and culture of Istanbul and the other about the European Union. It will be weird to not be taking a French class, but I was not thrilled with the ones offered and I think after this semester I will be needing "une petite pause" from French.
I also have basically given up all hope that I will reach full health this semester. Just when I think all will be well, a bout of diarrhea or some crazy dizziness hits me and it is back to square one. I have been exercising, although not too intensely nor too often as I am sick so much, which has definitely improved my mental health. The mood swings I experience here are absolutely insane. When I am in a good mood, something really depressing will come my way, and then I will fall into a bad mood. Then other times, I get so frustrated by little things like the attendant on a car rapide not giving me back my proper change and pretending he can't understand me when I call him out for it. It does work both ways though, as many times I have been either depressed about something or angry and then I come home and Soso will do something to make me laugh. I guess having more control over emotions is something that comes with time when leaving comforts of the developed world. Or maybe it is something one has to force him or herself to learn. Either way, there is no rest for the weak.
Also, after this semester there is no way I will ever look at rice the same way again, or white pasta. Baguettes have been growing on me though. I often feel helpless when it comes to eating healthily... For breakfast and dinner it is generally all really simple carbohydrates, sometimes I get vegetables with dinner, though not always. Lunch, which I buy, I try to eat fruits and nuts and yogurt but even after days of constantly eating those things I have grown weary. The problem, and this is probably a public health problem in general, is that healthy food is just so much more expensive than regular food. The cheapest salad I have found at a restaurant is $5, and compared to the fried egg on a baguette sandwich that costs $1, it is easier to choose the latter.
On a more positive note, I spent my first day of November at the beach... pretty sure the only time I've ever gone to the beach in November!
I promise my next post will be more interesting!
Ciao ciao!
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