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.