PG-13: Some material may not be suitable for young audiences

DISCLAIMER: I meant to post this over a week ago. Somehow, it only got saved in drafts. Oh, well!

6:50 pm Following a final glance around the house, I decide that no one is home, everything is in its proper place, and all the lights are off. With this, I lock up the house and join Ashlee and Tom to hail a taxi to l'Institut Français for a Saturday night cinema outing.

8:45 pm The movie (Omar M'a Tuer) was tragic (as most French films decidedly are,) and to lighten our spirits we head to l'Institut's restaurant for an exceptionally tasty lemon coconut cake and some riveting post-film discussion.

10:00 pm Our taxi having dropped us off at our respective homes, Tom and I head to my side of the house, expecting to find dinner waiting for us. (We eat late here.) However, a loud BAAAAAing interrupts the dark solitude of my kitchen, and although our dinner is indeed set out for us on the table, a certain unexpected guest has also been waiting for us: a goat, tied up to the leg of the table, eating his own dinner of cardboard, stale bread, and a little bit of water for consistency. He is presently christened Lazarus and we become fast friends, despite the fact that he tries to eat my laundry that has been set out to dry above his head.

12:00 am I bid goodnight to my family, Tom's family, and my little pal Lazarus.

7:00 am A putrid smell fills my bedroom and forces an early arousal from sweet slumber. In my groggy state, I hear a repeated THWACKing and a commotion between my house and Tom's, but the same groggy state does not allow me to form any conclusion as to the origins of these events. Instead, I rise, and as normal gather my washcloth and soap with the intent of heading to the sink to wash my face...

7:05 am All face washing attempts are entirely foiled, for when I exit the security of my bedroom, what do I find but to my horror poor Lazarus (or what once was he,) a carcass hanging in the corner of the L that separates my bedroom from the sink, my host brother and his friend performing the aforementioned THWACKS to strip all that remains on the sorry skeleton. The two men stand in a bloody pond which I desist from traversing - I can manage a sleep-stained face if it allows me to avoid this mess! - and yet as I step backwards into my bedroom, I can't help but notice that my flip flops have left a rather sanguinary set of prints on the tiled floor and the fresh-laundered pajamas hanging not so far from the Event of the Day have obtained a splattering of crimson drops.

2:30 pm We feast upon freshly grilled mutton, and I am so well-satiated that I consider not eating for an entire year to come.* Happy Early Tabaski, everyone!

The unsuspecting sacrifice peeks coyly from behind a curtain of laundry

*Have no fear. By dinnertime that same evening, I ate a second-round of mutton with no regrets!

Peanut farmer: Just another one of the hats worn by one Ms. Esther Hathaway

The lovely Sine Saloume landscape, soon to be destroyed by an airport.

Monday morning I was up at the crack of dawn, hailing a taxi in the still-sleepy morning streets of Ouakam. As the sun slowly lit up - and heated up - the city, I foraged the hustling, bustling gare routiere with five other students. We were escorted to an adequate bus, and despite a sweltering 2-hour wait, we finally hauled out of the station onto the dusty country roads. Four hours of dozing, squishing, adjusting and snacking. Next thing I know, I've been dropped off, (abandoned? My "guide" shoved me out of the back of the bus without a word and off drove the bus,) and I stumble into the shade of a tree, offered a sack of grain as a chair by one of the old men already seated. A short wait proceeded before a little horse-drawn cart slowly enlarged on the horizon, my ride, driven by two of my "brothers" for the week, François and Charles.

Just me and some peanuts.

Twenty minutes later, having passed by and admired the clusters of eucalyptus, palm and baobab trees, vast rice paddies and sprawling deltas, I arrived at my destination: Djilor, birthplace of Senegal's first president and most beloved poet, Léopold Senghor, located in the lush Sine Saloume region. I was greeted by a swarm of giggling toddlers who led me to Mama Mbat and the rest of her clan: 9 children, 3 cousins, 1 son-in-law, 2 grandchildren and a grandpa - all in one house, with countless neighbors and relatives filling up any extra space at any given time.

Too many cute little children! It was nearly overwhelming.

My welcome was warm and friendly, and my integration into the days' activities was swift and natural. Mornings I would wake up before it was light and join the boys, loading myself once again onto the horse cart and trotting off to the fields to harvest peanuts. This was a pleasant task; we'd work until noon, François guiding the horse and plow, the rest of us collecting the peanuts behind him, breaking once for a breakfast of Senegalese couscous and curdled milk. Then lunch, céebu jën around the bowl, before a more leisurely afternoon. I might join the grandmothers under the shade of the big tree out back, shelling peanuts, or survey the cashew cracking rituals as I was snuck one or two every couple minutes by Robert. Then perhaps some Ludo (Senegal's favorite board game - picture SORRY, but with images of lutteurs decorating it,) Dutch Blitz (endless rounds - I hadn't lost my speed!) Buck (shout out to the Smiths,) and reading (shout out to Chico's fantastic paperback library at 2132.) As the sun moved, so we followed the shade, all of us outside, often a good six or seven lumped on a single mat, napping, talking, cooking or working.

Only for dinner did we all disperse a bit. Each night I'd join Mbat, Mbat the younger, and all the children for a Bollywood soap opera and TV-dinner ritual. Following this, I'd head back outside to enjoy some late-night conversation and attaya, one last round of cards, a quick bucket shower and then off to bed.

Charles at the plow; I never succeeded at efficient horse-directing.

I was ever so pleased with my week, ever so grateful for my generous host family, my busy yet relaxing séjours in the beauty of rural Senegal. I was admittedly disappointed to say goodbye so soon - five days not being nearly enough - but look forward to a return visit one day.

Partie trois (La fin.)

Due to the fairly consistent scarcity of posts as of late, I’m going to skip to the last leg of our journey and use it to conclude the series, lest my blog turn into a veritable Rick Steve’s Travels in a Very Little Part of the Casamance and the Gambia…

***

I petted a crocodile. NBD.

We last left our three heroes traversing the Atlantic coast into the pink and violet hues of the Casamancian sunset.

But fast-forward a few days, set your GPS to around 12.775,-15.687 and you’d likely find the trio squished into another 7-place taxi, cruising across the Senegalese border into the Gambia, Senegal’s English-speaking sister. Despite the shared Wolof, Diola, Serer & al. cultures, despite the fact that this teeny country is a mere sliver of a protrusion in Senegal’s center, there was an immediately noticeable difference in architecture, culture, and language. This equated a diminished presence of Islam, the notably greater popularity of Bob Marley, and a rather clumsy shift from Wolof-French to Wolof-English (although you’d think it would be a relief to be speaking English again, it felt unnatural to be in Africa speaking English, a literal step away from a country where almost no one speaks it.)

The funny colonial repartitioning of West Africa

We arrived in the little beachside town of Bakau, and after escaping the clutches of two hustling Gambians – whose persistent “Come on, brudda – it’s nice to be nice!” would repeat itself often throughout our trip – we lodged ourselves in the pitch black (electricity cut) Ramona Hotel and shortly thereafter collapsed into sleep, exhausted from a day of travel.

Amidst picnic breakfasts of pain au chocolat on the beach, fried chicken and French fries (not altogether Gambian, but on unlit Gambian nights in the tourist off-season, the only – and it turns out very worthwhile – choice within a five-mile radius) from a jovial Gambian cook, delicious mafé at our favorite Mai’s Restaurant with the company of a friendly German journalist, and evenings of sweet coffee and Biskrem cookies from the boutique on the corner, we filled our days with a plethora of activities. Guided by a group of young schoolboys during their recess, we made our way to the crocodile reserve where we wondered at the interesting translations in the culture museum and marveled at the prehistoric beasts that slowly waddled out of the swamp that was their home. As the sunset stretched over the horizon that evening, we took in the calm, tourist-less, white sand beach. Bobbing up and down in the shallow waves,

This guy actually ended WWII single-handedly.

Poulet au yassa, rice and fries: $1.50. Coke: 50¢. This is the life.

Warren and Alex recited every African country and its capital as I contemplated our nearly-completed journey and what in the world the funny man with the long shirt was looking for on the beach.

Another day, we joined Philipp the German for a day trip to a nearby nature reserve, and I was delighted by the quantity of monkeys that I saw in a single day. We wandered through the overgrown paths, admiring the countless spiders, gorgeous greenery, and delicate, brightly-colored flowers until we reached the animal orphanage, full of baboons, red monkeys and hyenas. (I have to add here that although their tongues were less floppy and overall they were slightly fatter than portrayed in the movie, the hyenas were very accurately depicted in the Lion King.)

Of course other lively details filled our days that I haven’t time to recount, because unfortunately this post is already growing much longer than I had anticipated. I’ve heard that the most interesting/effective blogs have a short commentary and lots of pictures, but I’ve always had a problem with lengthy essays in school and apparently I haven’t managed to kick that habit yet. If you made it through this one: congratulations! I’ll add some photos to at least get part of that right, and next post will be more succinct, I promise.

Now I’m heading off to spend a week in Sine Saloume, Serer country, to live with a village family for a week with whom I’ll have no language communication skills at my disposal. I’ll return next Sunday, and of course let you know what adventures were had.

Enjoy your week, and I’ll catch you then!

Best Photo of the Trip Award goes to Mr. Alex Villec

This 27-year old Gambian named John tried to convince me and Alex that he was Obama's estranged father, and since we were heading back home in December, would we mind asking the president why he hadn't returned his dad's persistent calls? It's not normal!

This little boy, his rickety cart, and his skinny horse saved us an hour-long walk in the heat of the day, following our realization that we had used up all but the equivalent of 20¢ of our funds.

Part the Second of My Casamance Adventure.

I know you’ve all been waiting in eager anticipation for my next blog post, and so, one week of Wolof tests, French exposés, broken computers and Senegalese rappers later, here it is.

I’ll begin with a summary of the couple of days proceeding my last post, but by necessity will will follow up with a photographic voyage that will carry you through the green jungles and vast rice paddies of the Casamance countryside just until the charming Diola village of Diembering – in order to avoid doing any injustice to the incredible sights and sounds of the day, which surely would be the result were I to try translating them into mere words.

Our short stint in Ziguinchor was characterized by a sweaty Baay Fall asking for sugar, an incomprehensible Mauritanian shopkeeper, ataya with soccer players who we never actually saw, and a revolutionary new dulce de leche ice cream. A single night at our petit campement saw us off bright and early to find a sept-place taxi that would transport us to Cap Skirring.

The first day at Cap was wonderfully slow, but hence not much to write home about. Therefore, let’s fast-forward to Day 2.

Inspired by a rusty advertisement on the road to the beach and Alex’s prominent cycling history, we voted unanimously to rent mountain bikes and take a tour to Djiemebering, a neighboring village. A heavy rain during the night left ravines and potholes in the rustic dirt roads, lined by lush forests and expansive rice paddies. The road slowly narrowed into a less traveled foot path, but on and on we persevered, mesmerized by the intense beauty that surrounded us in the form of giant fromagiers, droves of birds singing and flitting between the masses of hanging nests, and incomparably dense verdure. Breathtaking.

After a few detours, we finally made our way to Djiembering. Almost immediately following our arrival we were met by an exceptionally friendly Djiolan who informed us that A) Being outside of Wolof territory, "Casu May" was the new greeting of choice; B) Today happened to be an annual regional lutte festival; and C) He happened to be quite free - would we like him to show us around?

Our new friend Sembe did indeed give us the grand tour of the town, introducing us to its inhabititants, offering wives to Alex and Warren, recounting the myths and traditions of the village and providing cultural descriptions (and demonstrations) with musical stops along the way. (Turns out he's Djiembering's resident musician.)

Needless to say, we soon discovered a single morning would not be enough, and after an excitement-packed day we were reluctant to say our goodbyes. However the sun his descent, so we set out along the beach to finish our day against the backdrop of a beautiful horizon.

 

Destination Casamance

Despite the very normal heat that hovered in waves above the cracked asphalt and the typically bright equatorial sun whose scorching rays made no attempt to disguise their intrinsically cancerous properties, last Friday was not quite as average as the weather that preceded it. Last Friday marked the first day of a week of river adventures, post-war excitement and pain au chocolat in excessive quantities.

Ziguinchor's wide streets and colorful scenery were a welcome break from Dakar

Following our fourth week at school and our first full month in Senegal I already had arrived at fall break. Consequentially, I was faced with a really wonderful question: Where should I travel during my nine days of freedom?

The answer to that question lay in Senegal’s southernmost region: The Casamance. Renowned for the lush mangrove forests that stretch alongside the tranquil Casamance river, the flocks of exotic birds that migrate yearly from the four corners of the world and the endless expanses of white sand beaches that would make and postcard vendor drool, Senegal’s Casamance region is said to be the most beautiful region in the country.

Still, the beauty hasn’t come without the beast; throughout history, the Casamance has been characterized by years of civil warfare and rebellion, ranging from an impressive stand against French colonialism in the 1940s (with a particularly bold [albeit failed] revolt led by a female that you can read about here if you’re looking for some rainy day lit) to the past decade’s sometimes violent uprisings against the current government and the notable chaos that ensued. In 2004 the Casamance finally reached an agreement with the government and since then has been welcoming increased stability and peace, and despite the occasional sighting of a 10 year old carrying a machete in the street, the Casamance remains, hands down, the most charming and welcoming part of Senegal. *

Warren & Alex: Travel companions par excellence

All of that to say that the Casamance was without doubt the most logical destination for my fall break. Lucky for me, two other dauntless friends thought so as well – Warren, an environmental/international studies major at Northeastern, and Alex, an economics major from Georgetown. Therefore, Lonely Planet guide in one hand, passport in the other, backpack strapped securely to my back and a companion on either side, I embarked on my journey to the Fertile Region.

First stop: Ziguinchor. The Casamance’s regional capital is a fair distance from Dakar and numerous warnings about crummy roads (that barely even deserved to be call such) and very sketchy taxis that turn 6 hours into a two-day affair, coupled with the contrastingly enjoyable prospect of a maritime adventure, led us to choose the Dakar ferry as our means of transport. And an excellent choice it was – the 8pm departure furnished a beautiful panorama of Senegal’s capital city for the occasion, the glittering skyline quietly meshing into the star-lit night sky until finally Dakar disappeared altogether as the ferry pulled farther and farther away and we were left in the hushed darkness of the Atlantic Ocean. An evening on deck was filled with conversation, coffee and cookies, and after the enchantment of the nighttime sea had given way to tiredness, I climbed into my cozy cabin bunk and let the waves rock me to sleep…

Dakar's ferry port by night

The next morning saw a fairly early start. After a breakfast of chocolate, baguettes and café au lait (the recurring meal of the trip) with a very friendly French couple, it wasn’t long before our 15-hour ride had finally reached its destination. Amidst the belligerent crowd of hoteliers and taxi drivers that crowded the docks, we slowly pushed our way to the streets of Ziguinchor. As soon as we escaped, an immediate sense of calmness characterized this new city whose wide, sparsely-trodden roads, low buildings and impressive foliage (Dakar had me forgetting that the color green ever existed) was a dramatic contrast to the bustling streets of Dakar, so crowded with people and animals and vehicles coming and going in every direction without regard to anyone else. Here, people moved slower, smiled more, and made a really delicious yassa au poulet.

The welcoming shores of Ziguinchor!

But can you wait here a minute? Or a few, if you don’t mind; I’m going to leave you hanging for a day or two before I continue my vacation tales, lest I end up writing an entire novel in one go. So I’m stopping here, but I’ll add more soon. Until next time! Ba beneen yoon!

*Granted, I’m pretty certain those machetes were actually going to be used in the rice fields that pervaded the Casamansian countryside… but it sounds awfully more dramatic if I leave out the context.

CLASSIFIEDS

Questions? Comments? Concerns? Just fill out the little box below or shoot me an email at etty.hathaway@gmail.com. This blog is essentially for you, my intelligent, beautiful readers, so if you have anything specific you'd like me to post about or photograph, let me know!

My newest pals

Wow, it's been awhile since I've posted... this week has been busy, busy, busy. Last weekend we went to a beach town called Toubab Dialaw (photos later), followed by a whirlwind of classes and homework and ice cream. In fact, I don't have much time now - I'm leaving in a few hours for a week-long trip along the Senegal river (I promise details upon my return!) - but since I'll be a week without a computer, I thought I'd at least post a few photos of the adorable little kitties that have taken over the doll house on the VDN. 

Every day, following my rugged ride on the car rapide and a short walk through some twisty streets, I encounter the VDN, the big highway I have to cross every day to get to school. There is a little island between each side of the highway where the talibé (young beggar boys from the Koranic schools) often hang out and animals tend to rot - as you can imagine, not the most beautiful, nor the most aromatic of places. However, last Monday as we were precariously tiptoeing across the island so as to avoid stepping in any of the suspicious, fly infested piles of UIOs, we came across a little kitty in the dollhouse that the talibé keep. And the next day, he was still there... and the next, and the next, until finally yesterday he even had a little kitty friend with him. 

Needless to say, I am overwhelmed by adorableness each and every day.

 This was the original kitty in his little kitty mansion. Just hangin'.

To give you a sense of where the house is at. There's a street like that on each side, although normally the cars are more noticeable. Probably they're just going so fast you can't see them. (Oh! And that's my school in back - that pinkish building.)

This picture is mostly for my mother (Hi, Mom!) who requested I post a photo of myself, and for the kitty's kitty friend, lest he feel left out for not making the first photo. Unfortunately, this was the only photograph I had with myself in it - I'll have to do some Facebook snatching when I get back.

Have a fabulous week, everyone - catcha on the flip side! =)

Travel Guide: Ile de Gorée

Take a little break from la vie quotidienne and make a stop at the historic Ile de Gorée.

Located a little more than a mile off the coast of Dakar, l'Ile de Gorée made its grim name as the first European settlement in Africa, paving the way for what would become a massive Atlantic slave trade. Occupied at various times by the Dutch, the Portuguese and the French, the island is also known as La Maison des Esclaves (the House of Slaves) and is a sobering reminder of the gross barbarity perpetrated throughout so much of the world.

However, rather than dwell constantly in what history can not undo, Senegal has turned the ancient horror into a colorful, bustling island town. Remnants of colonial structures  juxtapose their brightly washed walls next to more traditional thatched-roof houses as artists sell their handmade goods and children play soccer on the beach.

Museums scatter l'Ile de Gorée, and despite their rather decrepit, disorganized state, (often in the Women's Museum, you would not be informed on what you were looking at until two exhibits later, and the preservation techniques were quite wanting,) each museum - the Woman's Museum, the Slave Museum, and a general anthropological exhibit of the evolution and migration of the Senegalese - offered an intriguing range of the histories of Senegal's peoples.

A visit to one of Senegal's oldest mosques was in call, a worthy stop despite its rather unassuming state. If the sun's not too scalding and your burn's not too excrutiating, take a hike up the small hill at the end of the island for some spectacular views of Dakar and some peaceful breathing away from the hyper-heckling vendors. (They are the only downside to this otherwise serene getaway - imagine a woman stalking you for half the length of the island before tugging at your clothing to get you to come buy from her, and dramatically proclaiming that if you don't, she'll be forced to throw herself in the water, and her children will fall in to poverty with only a fourteen year-old sister to look after them. True story.)

Once you've finished your hillside climb, come back down and splurge 50¢ - you deserve it! - on a succulent mango dripping in fresh lime juice. Take it over to the water side and savor the goût while the cool waves wash gently over your hot, tired feet.

(If you've been keeping up with my posts, you'll have noticed I have a rather strong penchant for food.)

Week Three of my Senegalese escapades has already turned the corner, and in only one more week I'll reach the one quarter marker. I face a series of mixed feelings to this very recent revelation, including: Will I actually be able to do all that I want to do in the 3/4ths that remain? Will that be enough time to adjust to the heat, or will I be perpetually swimming in my sweat as the Senegalese, dressed to the nines in their fine long-sleeved blouses and carefully ironed slacks walk by me without a droplet of perspiration? Most importantly, will I be able to try all 54 flavors of ice cream at N'Ice Cream before my December departure?

Oh N'Ice Cream, thou blessèd refuge of air conditioning and sweet, creamy goodness! Located in the middle of Centre Ville, not too far from the massive, bustling (and if you're not careful, hustling) Sandaga Market, this quirky little white building, comparable to a large ice cube spotted with colorful blue port holes, juts out of one of Dakar's imposing cement towers as a veritable Toubab haven.

Let me interject- There was a brief period of time when I first arrived in Senegal that I aspired to assimilate myself to the local culture, as I would on any voyage abroad. However, I soon came to the realization that as a short, white, American girl, there was absolutely no snowflake's chance in hell that I could effectively do that. That's not to say I have entirely abandoned my attempts; quite to the contrary, it is with even more gusto than ever that I taste the sketchiest looking homemade drink-filled baggies on the corner stands and head to Friday's market to buy a boubou for the upcoming holiday of Tabaski. However, while not abandoned, they have been acknowledged as unachievable dreams and I have not only come to accept my Toubab state of existence but I have come to embrace it. I know I will look ridiculous in my boubou, as I know I sound ridiculous when I try speaking Wolof or fail miserably when I try eating with my hand. But if it makes the Senegalese people chuckle (which it does) and enrichens my experience (which it will) than I shall continue in my ridiculous ways.

But it also means that occasionally, I get to take a break from trying to be what I know I never will (that is to say, a tall, black, entirely un-sweaty Senegalese woman who looks like she's going to a ball every day in her elegant, brightly-colored boubou when she's merely going to the grungy market that practically floats in the sewer; who lets her Wolof words slide smoothly off her tongue; and who doesn't let a single grain of rice drop from her hand as the ball of ceebu jën travels from the massive shared bowl to her mouth...) Yes, I'll take a break from all that and take a moment to step into my little ice cream store with all the other Toubabs who look similarly out of place with me.

And looking at the cases of flavors, I don't think any of you could blame me. It's difficult not to look like a drooling, desperate puppy as I stare, wonder-eyed and drooling at the grand assortment of parfums: soft, juicy peaks of fresh-made mango ice cream could contrast nicely with a cool scoop of coconut. Or perhaps you'd rather go for the Obama cookie ice cream? I've heard excellent things about the sesame gelato, and the Italian strawberry sorbet is not to be passed up...

After long debate, I decide on the Milka chocolate with carmel crunch. As expected, it's mouth wateringly delicious, and I am hardly finished before I think I could eat an entire new cone. However, I practice some serious self control and decline my kind offer for a second, instead trying to savor the almost-forgotten taste in my mouth enjoying one last bout of A/C before I head back into the heat and smog that waits for me outside. My second stop at N'Ice Cream was a grand success. Two flavors down - 52 to go.

Some Petite Observations...

When blueprints are being considered, bathrooms get the shaft. In fact, they don’t even deserve being called such: the minimal size would be more adequately called a closet, and I’ve yet to see a bath. Instead, a seatless toilet is nearly all any “bathroom” can hold. And forget about toilet paper, people here prefer the “water system.” If you’re lucky, a shower head will be centered right next to, if not on top of the toilet. Otherwise, bucket showers are always a good second choice. Just make sure to bring a flashlight, as I’ve yet to see a light fixture in any bathroom.

When going anywhere, add an extra half hour to be dedicated to greeting people along the way. I will provide you with two scenarios to make the reason why ever so much clearer. First, let’s pretend that Etty is buying a package of pretzel M&M’s at BP:

Gas station man: Hi, did you find everything you need?

Me: Yup, that’s it.

And then I pay.

And that’s the end of that. Now, let’s take the same scenario, and just substitute pretzel M&M’s for a small package of Biskrem cookies at a convenience store in Senegal:

Storekeeper: Bonjour, asalaam maalekum.

Me: Maalekum salaam.

Storekeeper: Nanga def?

Me: Maangi fi rekk.

Storekeeper: Nanga fanane?

Me: Jámm rekk.

Storekeeper: Sa yaram jam?

Me: Jámm rekk, alxumdulilaay.

Storekeeper: Nanga waa kër gi?

Me: Nungi fi.

Storekeeper: Ça va bien?

Me: Ça va bien. Ça va?

Storekeeper: Ça va.

Now that we have our greeting out of the way, something more similar to the American scenario passes and I can finally buy my Biskrems. Of course, that same conversation happens whether I’m talking with the security guard at my school, who I see every day, or passing by a total stranger on a street corner.

And even if I don’t go through this entire discourse with my family every time I enter a room – I mean, that would be a little excessive, right? – I am still expected to shake hands and ask how everyone is doing, individually.

Needless to say, I know how everyone is doing at any given minute and have shaken more hands in these past two weeks than I likely have my whole life.

America’s Most Important Meal of the Day is of no importance here. Breakfast every morning consists of: a cup of Nescafé instant coffee and half a baguette. I avoid the margarine.

Eating “around the bowl” is a great way to save dishwashing hassle. Although it takes some time to get used to eating out of a large, communal bowl with 5+ other people, and I haven’t fully adjusted to eating rice, fish and cabbage with one hand and no silverware, it’s such an effective way to spend less time in the kitchen. Plus, who doesn’t like an excuse to lick their hands in public.

Celine Dion is the world’s favorite singer. I am constantly bewildered/amused by how much the rest of the world, outside of North America, loves Celine Dion. Senegal is no exception to the rule.

“Finish your food, there are starving children in Africa!” sounds very different when you see the children firsthand. Even in Senegal, Africa’s most politically stable democracy, poverty is rampant and the unemployment rate hovers around 50%, making America’s 9% look meager. That poverty reflects the hunger that is equally prevalent. The other night after for once refusing to finish my mountain of food, I went to go throw the leftovers in the garbage. However, Lyddie stopped me on my way. She told me, “You can’t just throw that away, Esther. Here in Africa, we always put our leftovers in a bag. That way, when a hungry child is looking in the dumps for food later on, he will find it still clean to eat. And it will be more difficult for the dogs to get it first.”

And the saddest part of the situation is that I see those hungry children every single day.

It definitely jolts my perspective, which up until now has been primarily influenced by countries whose jobless have hope enough to keep searching, whose poor usually can still eat - and when they can't, they are hidden from view. It's healthy for me to be reminded that la vie est plutôt belle in the land of Stars and Stripes, and hopefully it remains a reminder for me four months from now, when I am an ocean away from what I am experiencing in these moments. 

A brief photographic tour of Ouakam, for your enjoyment.

I finally took advantage of my school's wireless internet and uploaded a few photos. Of course, this is merely a glimpse of the wonders that await me each and every day, but it will give you a very vague idea of where I am.

Horse-drawn carts are not at all passé here in Ouakam. If only I could get one to take me to school...

The beach at Mamelles, about a ten minute walk from my house.

Obama makes his appearance on the old airport wall behind my house.

Garbage litters the streets of every neighborhood in Dakar. However, it's slightly redeemed by the happy goat family that has clearly found a nice home in this particular heap.

Allez, les Lions!

It’s been a busy past few days, thus the delay in blog posts. My humblest apologies, and my most sincere promises to try to be more consistent from here on out, whether it be a short anecdote or a single photograph, something’s better than nothing! (Especially the photographs. I need to get on top of those. We are a visual culture, after all.)

Last Saturday, following a lazy morning and an “early” lunch of ceebu jën at 1:30, I slathered on the sunscreen, donned the straw hat that Herbertin was so eager to give me (“Il faut que tu te protèges contre le soleil! Prends-là!”), and joined the other toubabs in Ouakam on their way to the Sengal vs. the DRC soccer game. After a sweaty ride to school, we gathered with the rest of the fifty-five students and were shoved into two “private” car rapides like a bunch of sardines and shipped off to la Stade de Leopold Sedar Senghor.

 

Forcing our way through the throngs of sweaty people and overly-enthusiastic vendors of team Senegal gear, we made our way to the field. We had been previously warned that if we really wanted good seats, we needed to arrive fairly early, so we took this advice and arrived no less than three hours before the match began. (Admittedly, our seats were great. They had backs on them, a huge improvement from the majority of cement-slab-dubbed-seats.)

I was extremely curious as to what a Senegalese sporting event would serve for concessions, and our three-hour wait provided me with ample time to check out all the goods available. First up: Chicken sandwich. In place of hot dogs and hamburgers, little tables were set up with gas fires heating skillets of chicken, peppers, onions, and French fries that were then spread across a fresh baguette for a mere 1000 CFA, or about $2 USD. Peanuts compared to normal concession prices, and mighty tasty, too. The second snack of choice was a bag of petit madeleines, little butter cakes. (Think twinkies without the cream.) Female vendors kept passing us with huge trays full of frozen liquid-filled baggies, balanced precariously on their heads. The substance inside these baggies was a suspiciously cloudy substance, either yellowy or pinkish depending on which one you chose. Although I was wary of its contents, another girl bought the yellow one (it looked like the liquid egg mixture the school cafeteria uses) and I ventured a taste. I was relieved to discover it was basically a frozen vanilla pudding, although not quite as appetizing as the popcorn that I was by no means about to pass up a little later.

Fooding aside, though, the game began around seven. It was an exciting match, and the first live soccer game I’ve ever attended. I must admit, I looked pretty darn American in that great straw hat and the red bandana I was sporting, but I am fairly certain that my team spirit and top-notch cheering of “Allez, Lions!” could compete with any true Senegalese fan. From the first fanfare of the national anthem played by a military band to the final firework celebrating Senegal’s 2-0 victory, the sweaty, excited mob in la stade was an unceasing mass of adrenaline and clamor, giving undying support to their country. No one was a bad sport about the end, either; I even had a couple – albeit rather downcast-looking - Congolese fans offer me a congratulatory handshake at the end.

I kept careful watch over my purse on the exit and trudged through the dirty, delighted mob to find a taxi. Weary but happy from a successful evening, we Ouakamers finally drove off to the sounds of celebration filling the heavy night air.

Home, Sweet Home

The internet here is quite slow, but I finally managed to upload a single photo. My house is the yellowish one on the right, next to the blue car. That terrace is my terrace, that stoop, my stoop!

On Fasting and Feasting

Yesterday was Korite, which essentially means that I ate more food than the normal four giant man-sized meals that have become my normal diet.

I arrived in Senegal midway through Ramadan, which meant that of Senegal’s 95% Muslim population, anyone eating or drinking between sunup and sundown would be an extremely rare sighting. Instead, people satisfied themselves by chewing on sticks, staying out of the boiling heat, and counting the days until they can finally indulge in their ceebu jën when they’re actually hungry. Ramadan equaled a very quiet first impression of Dakar; because of the fasting, most restaurants and stores were closed down, all activities that condoned any less-than-conservative behavior were shunned, and to avoid the short tempers of everyone else, most people tended to keep themselves as long and often as possible.

All that changed with Korite. Once the new moon was finally sighted, the fête had already begun. Out came the varieties of brand-new boubous in all colors, shapes and fabrics, hand-tailored for this day of celebration. Food was of course a central theme of the day, which began with sweet milled-flour porridge, drowned in runny yoghurt, and was followed with countless beignets (basically donut holes) and massive platters of meat, potatoes and rice throughout the day. The women had long prepared for the event, as was evident in their newly coiffured tresses and elaborate manicures, and as soon as everyone was dressed their best, the tours began. In the morning, all the men and boys visited the mosque for prayer and then went around to the homes of all of their neighbors, near and far, requesting pardon for any offence they had unconsciously committed and offering food as a token of peace and community. In the afternoon, after taking their turn at welcoming the men, the women went out and did the same.

My host-family is surprisingly in the teeny-tiny minority of non-Muslims here in Dakar. Therefore, I have had the welcome luxury of being served generous portions (a little TOO generous in fact… these people are bent on fattening me up!) alongside my family for each meal of the day throughout Ramadan, while around the rest of Dakar, each CIEE student is enviously eyed as he scarfs down his meager, individually-prepared egg as quickly as he can and with the least amount of pleasure as possible, lest the hunger pangs become too strong for his Muslim brothers and sisters to bear.

Despite, then, the fact that my family has not been partaking in the fast, we were by no means left out of the events of yesterday’s celebration. What I figured would be a typical day off from school turned out to be a hand-shaking extravaganza; Endless parades of people would enter the front door, offer a dish to share, make a peace-offering, hand-shaking tour of the house, and leave, just in time for the next group to come in. I particularly enjoyed it whenever a toubab came in with their host family, having fairly little clue as to what they were doing, and being rushed in and out of each house without knowing where they were, but typically with a confused smile on their face and always sporting an ill-fitting boubou that made them look more toubab-y than ever.

Of course, now that Ramadan has ended, it will be much easier to find lunch (since the Muslim-owned restaurants [which, if proportionate to the population, is 95%] will finally be re-opened,) and much easier to sleep (now that the Ramadan prayers will no longer be echoing through the loudspeakers of the local mosque at all hours of the night.)

Ouakam, My 'Hood

 At 4:37am, it’s impossible to sleep due to the combination of incessant lecturing and prayer from the loudspeakers of next door’s mosque, an army of hungry mosquitos that found my feet particularly delicious, and one of many frequent power cuts that has left me fanless to fend for myself in the thick, hot air of a rather muggy past hour. Instead of lamenting, however, I’ll try to set aside my sticky, itchy state and instead consider it a golden opportunity to update my blog.

Two days ago, following continued orientation classes on Senegalese culture and language, all of us students re-packed the bags that had been so haphazardly unpacked and lugged them downstairs to be piled into the narrow, nearly impassable hallway. All 55 of us then piled in a similar fashion onto the small sidewalk in front of the hotel, and with much nervous excitement, we waited as one by one each student was called forward to meet their new host families, who had finally arrived to pick us up. For everyone, this was without doubt the most exciting part of our time here so far.

I was picked up by a quite tall, friendly man who I learned was Herbertin, my host father.  We drove for about twenty minutes to my new home, which is located in Ouakam.

***

But here, let me quick interrupt myself and give you a bit of background. Dakar is divided into 19 districts, called arondissements. The arondissement of Ouakam is nestled between two hills called les Deux Mammelles. And for those of you who didn't know, Dakar is located on the Westernmost part of Africa - which means that Ouakam, being on the western side of Dakar, is on one side entirely coastline. It originated as a fishing village but over time melted into Dakar and is currently one of the fastest-growing suburbs within the capital city. Ouakam is much less noisy than Mermoz (where our hotel and school are, about twenty minutes by bus) due to less traffic, but nonetheless is very lively and populated with friendly neighbors. It is also conveniently located only a ten-minute walk from two beaches and a stone’s throw from the airport.

***

Anyhow. Upon our arrival, Herbertin guided me through one house, a gate, a narrow courtyard, and another gate – until at last we reached my new home, consisting of two bedrooms, a living room, a tiny kitchen, and a tiny bathroom, all connected by an open-air hallway and concluded with a porch area for eating. Admittedly, the bathroom has taken some getting used to; a light-less closet requires me to bring a flashlight in order to see anything. The toilet is angled tightly against the wall and doubles as the shower, and the goats next door have been known to surprise me with their unexpected, surprisingly loud bleating. My own bedroom is sparse but perfectly equipped for my four months here, and it was a wonderful feeling to be able to finally unpack. It wasn’t until then that I really felt settled; living out of my suitcase in Mermoz kept me in limbo, but now I am part of a family and in my own home, and I feel like I’m really getting in my Senegalese groove...

During the little walking tour provided by my guide Herbertin I learned that the house we passed through to get to our apartment is that of Herbertin’s in-laws, and the residence of another student in the CIEE program with me. That side of the living quarters is a busy contrast to my quiet abode of three, with a mother and father and five children ages 10-24. (Although there are so many comings-and-goings of aunts and uncles and cousins and neighbors, all the time, that I lose track of who are the permanent ones.) The sixth child (the eldest) is Lyddie, my host mother, Herbertin’s wife.  The two sides of the house (the other side being, of course, much bigger than ours) share a fantastic rooftop terrace that offers a stunning view of Ouakam, including the Monument de la Renaissance Africaine and airport, as well as a very convenient stoop, to my great delight. They are also located quite near a number of other students; there are at least eight of us within a four-block radius.

Tomorrow morning I'll be up at the crack of dawn to catch the bus for my first class in Le Reglement des Crises, so it's high time I split. However, I'll conclude by saying that I have been so far thankful for a generous, fun family to live with and continued fun here in Senegal, and look forward to my continued months here.

PS To any MN State Fair goers: Please make sure to eat double the Sweet Martha's in my honor. And let me know how the sweet corn ice cream is... I am duly intrigued!

The Arrival

On August 20^th I devoured what will probably be my last plate of blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup I’ll eat in four months (this is a meal that ranks somewhere around #3 on my favorite meals list.) Shortly thereafter my family dropped me off at the MSP airport. I said a final farewell, left all the “inexperienced travelers” in my dust as I sped through the “experienced travelers” line (which, for some reason, NO ONE ever takes,) was deemed a person of suspicion and was frisked, scanned, and hand sampled, and finally took off on Delta 2038.

An extra 4.5-hour layover at JFK and 8-hour flight to Dakar later, I arrived in Dakar. After waiting in the typically roasting, sticky weather for everyone to arrive, we were all bussed over to the hotel we are staying at for the first week. A quick breakfast and shower were first on my agenda, followed by a long nap in the luxurious air conditioning.

Glorious sleep left me feeling much more refreshed and capable of taking in my surroundings, so I’ll give you a rundown of first impressions: Dakar is a very interesting city. Simple, pastel-painted buildings and unfinished concrete apartments rise out of the hot, dusty ground. Busy highways and roads are full of dingy taxis and slick SUVs that honk relentlessly at each other and at the pedestrians, who, lacking any stoplights, identify how much time they have to run across the street without getting hit and make a mad dash for the other side of the street - unless one of the drivers takes pity, slowing down long enough that they can reduce their run to a jog.

The Senegalese are as diverse as their cars, displaying a variety of wealth and dress. Colorful boubous walk alongside designer jeans and Armani tees; goats and horses mingle with the construction workers and peddlers.  Trash is everywhere, (I’ve yet to see a single garbage can, and the recycling system consists of handing old bottles to urchin children who in turn hand them in for a few cents,) but establishments are generally well-kept. As a somewhat short, undeniably pasty white “toubab,” it’s impossible to even attempt to be discreet, and everywhere I go I draw attention and jokes. However it’s all good-natured, and so far the Senegalese people have been a very happy and welcoming bunch.

So all that’s what I’ve gleaned from the past couple of days here, between orientation classes, Wolof (Senegal’s street language) survival courses, meeting new people, eating new foods and wondering how the Senegalese manage not to sweat. This weekend I’ll move in with my host family; Monday is the beginning of classes. I am probably more excited about meeting my family than any other part of this program, and will definitely recount how that all goes.

But meanwhile, I’m going to conclude my first post. Ba beneen yoon!

A Beginning

After serious deliberation and extensive internal debate, I have arrived at a resolution: I am going to create a blog.

It’s something I've meant to do for quite awhile now, but somehow, time and energy always failed me and the dream never became a reality. This time however, my resolve is pure and my decision irrevocable. And look! Reading this page means I published an entry, which is a lot further than I’ve ever gotten before. Clearly, this is a good omen.

Anyhow, a relatively brief introduction: Following my first year at St. Kate’s, it dawned on me that our world is a pretty big one and I’ve a lot left to see. (That’s actually not totally true. I came upon that realization a while ago, but it sounded like a nice way to start off the entry and the revelation is no less relevant today.) Therefore, it seemed reasonable that I take a semester off from conventional university to study abroad. My desire to be in a Francophone country narrowed down the options quite a bit, and since I’ve already spent a considerable amount of time in France I opted out of all of the France programs, which narrowed my selection even more. I’ve never been to Africa - and now’s as good a time as any! – and on a bit of a whim I decided to come to Senegal.

And now I intend to keep track of my four months here by means of this blog. Though I can make no promises as to the regularity of my entries, I do promise that I will try my best to keep the world (anyhow, anyone who is interested) informed about my adventures and misadventures. 

Enjoy=)

PS: Shout out to Anna Moore whose own blog, La Vida en Viña, was an inspiration to me and us all.