Packing List and Tips for Prospective Students in this Beautiful Country.

This post won't be too interesting to any of the blog's followers, but I've been meaning on putting up a packing list for any other student going through the CIEE Dakar program, in case, like me, they did a pre-departure Google search of what they should bring. The following is both what I found useful, what I found unuseful, and what I wish I would have brought:

Things I was particularly glad to have brought:

1.    Moisture wicking underwear. Most items will not be listed in order of importance, THESE being the exception. Through months of hand washing my lingerie in the shower, I can’t say enough about this magical comfy, fast-drying, durable underwear. (Mine were Isis brand.)

2.    REI quick-dry towel. Fast-drying, highly absorbent, and impressively compact.

3.    Flashlight. Infinite electricity outages made my flashlight one of the most vital items in my suitcase.

4.    Books. There was a packing debate pre-departure on whether their weight was worth their place in my suitcase. Granted, I’m a bit of a bookworm, but lots of down time in a slow culture meant lots of great lit was oft taken advantage of, and I just left the copies I had read in the school library.

5.    Travel alarm clock. These run on batteries that don’t need to be charged, unlike phones whose ability to power on and therefore wake you up on time for class necessitates reliable electricity, something not too available in Senegal.

6.    Art supplies. I didn’t get a TON of use out of these, but still appreciated having paints and colored pencils along for the moments I did use them as a form of journaling. Also, it made me very popular with kids to have bright colors and white paper – a bit of a rarity to a lot of them.

7.   Lonely Planet guidebook. Battered, worn, discolored and torn, it came with me on all of my travel excursions; and, even the days I left it behind in order to figure things out “for myself,” it seems like all of the best stops were indeed those listed in my Lonely Planet.

Things I brought but didn’t need:

1.    Steripen. At the advice of a former student, I bought a portable water sterilizer. How many times did I use it? 0. It’s still in the package.

2.    Keens/Chacos/Tevas. Granted, I didn’t bring all three of those. But while that general Peace Corps concept of heavy-duty sandals in third-world terrain may be logical for a member of the Peace Corps, I was not part of the Peace Corps and these shoes didn’t get any usage – I stuck out enough as a white American, and those would have been the clincher. I wore my nice leather sandals and my Old Navy flip-flops everywhere.

3.   Hair dryer. I used it probably twice throughout my entire trip. It’s just too hot there to justify making yourself even hotter in order to have dry hair… which frankly, doesn’t even dry, because by the time it should be you’re too sweaty yourself.

4.   Mosquito Net. I did use the one I brought, but it would have been cheaper/less hassle just to buy one at any of the pharmacies after I had arrived.

Things I didn’t bring, but wish I had:

1.   More nice clothes. Before I left, I was thinking: Senegal = Hot, sweaty, dirty, dusty = Ultimate basics in comfort and zero style. Granted, Senegalese men think American girls are beautiful no matter HOW shabby or sweaty your clothes. But those Senegalese ladies do dress up pretty classily, and I was no competition for them.

2.   A pocketknife. It would have come in handy SO many times and I’d always regret not having one. (Remember to pack it on your CHECKED baggage - don't get blacklisted like my brother who walked through security with my knife... also why I no longer have one.)

3.   Anti-perspirant. I am a fan of Tom’s of Maine Deodorant, partly because I like the lavender scent, partly because I like the all-natural, aluminum-free quality of the product. HOWEVER. I admit that in 95+˚ weather and humidity, I’ll take the non-scientifically proven cancer-inducing status of aluminum in order to maintain a slightly less powerful odor.

4.    Notebooks. I figured this is something I could just pick up when I got here; it was, and I did, but it would have been less hassle to just bring my own.

5.   A protector for my computer. A mere month into my stay, my MacBook’s logic board was corroded by the intense humidity. I was computer-less for the rest of my semester, and $280 in debt to Apple Corp on my return.

6.   A pillow. I got used to sleeping without one, and not all students were in the pillowless situation I was in, but it still would have been welcomed.

Final Efficient Packing List to add to the above-mentioned items:

CLOTHES

Tee-shirts: 3-4

Tank tops: 6-10, or as many as you can roll into your suitcase (they don’t take up much room!)

Long-sleeved tops: 1

Sweaters/cardigans: 1

Sweatshirts: 1

Comfy, every-day pants: 2-4

Sweat pants/leggings (for around the house): 1

Nice jeans: 1

Nice pants: 1

Shorts: 0

Skirts: 2-3 (so long as it's not skankily short, any length will do! If you want to be safe, though - let not thine knees be shown.)

Everyday dresses: 1-2 (recommended at least one maxi skirt or dress, in case you visit any holy sites that require more modest dress)

Going-out dresses: 1-2 (doesn’t need to be knee length here!)

Swimsuit: 1 (bikinis are okay!)

Beach covering: 1 (I found it handy, anyway)

PJs: 3 (1 shorts + 1 light pants + 1 warmer pants)

Large, lightweight scarves: 1

Headscarves/headbands: 1-2 (good for keeping hair out of your sweaty face)

Belts: 2-3

SHOES

“Nice”/comfy sandals: 1

Flip-flops: 1-2

Sneakers: 1

Dress shoes: 1 (heels or flats, although with all the sand I liked flats much better)

COSMETICS

Honestly, I RARELY used make-up here – I was far too sweaty for it to look good or be practical. I only ever used it for going out, although I was glad to have it then.

My flat iron I used probably three times total, my hair dryer not at all.

I would, however, recommend jewelry, as long as it’s not terribly nice. I enjoyed being able to dress up outfits, especially since I was wearing the same things every single day.

Perfume

Deoderant

Razors

Extra contacts

Contact solution/cases

And lots of hair ties and bobby pins!

Everything else – shampoo, soap, toothpaste, hygienics, etc. – can all be easily and cheaply bought in Senegal

MEDICAL

Vitamins

Tylenol/Aspirin/Ibuprofen

PeptoBismal

Anti-diarrhea

Laxatives

Antiseptic cream

Sunscreen (30-50spf: You’re on the equator, afterall!)

Bugspray: Granted, I spent almost every evening outside, but went through almost two cans of OFF

Bandaids

Your malaria meds!

OTHER
Rain gear

Souvenirs for your host family/Senegalese friends (postcards, food items [I brought candy, maple syrup and wild rice, all hits,] coloring materials for kids, photographs, jewelry, candles, tea, mugs… these all proved to be popular)

Cards

Books

Camera (and accessories – charger, USB, extra memory cards)

Backpack

Water bottle

Soap holder

Laundry bag

MP3/headphones/well-stocked iTunes repertoire for music sharing

Flash drive

Purse/wallet

Glasses

Glue stick and scissors (I always find them useful, anyway!)

French dictionary

Journal

Pencils/pens

Envelopes (Not the lick-adhesive… the humidity sealed all that I brought. Get the sticker ones.)

Extra treat: Starbucks VIA (After Nescafé and dry milk and loads of Café Touba, a little instant Starbucks at the end of a long day can't be beat=)

Or, you could of course just skip the packing and get all of your clothes made in matching fabric with everyone else.

Outro

Well, I’ve been meaning to write up a little “conclusion” to my semester in Senegal for some time. But, as with all my other good blogging intentions, days turned into weeks that in turn became months – good months, mind you – and as Amelia Bedelia might say, I “plum forgot."

Until now – when, tucked away in a little corner room at the Corrymeela Reconciliation Center in Northern Ireland, I felt inspired tonight to step outside of the cool, misty green pastureland of the Emerald Isle into the much hotter, drier, dusty streets of Dakar one last time. (In my head, anyway. And my ears – I wonder if I’m the only American in Ireland listening to Mbalax right now? Wouldn’t doubt it… in fact I’d doubt otherwise.)

Farewell, Car Rapide. I miss you dearly.

I miss Senegal. West Africa, to anyone who knows me, seemed a really weird choice of program before I left. Even to me, it came as a bit of a surprise to have chosen to go to Dakar. I like cleanliness and beauty, open spaces, cool weather and lots of nature; gourmet food and a good cappuccino; quirky indie films and calm folksy music; European literature, comfortable living. Dakar poses to all this the ultimate contrast: Dirty, dusty, smelly, plain; crowded and busy; hot hot HOT (and very sweaty) without AC; so little vegetation that the 2x4 foot plot of grass at the Elton gas station was the most green I saw any given day; piles of rice loaded with oil and MSG and fried fish, eaten with hands around a big bowl; a cup of coffee consisting of Nescafé with powdered milk; music I didn’t know and didn’t understand and definitely couldn’t dance to; no news other than a tabloid journal representing each political party; a culture vastly different from my own and living conditions that most middle-class Westerners would find distressing.

Knowing all of this, I could never have anticipated how truly perfect and meaningful the semester before me would be when I disembarked from the airplane on August 21, 2011; but, somehow, each of the things that from a distance or under other circumstances could seem very unattractive to me instead became charming, or adventuresome, or perhaps something I didn’t even think about after awhile. Once it became a part of my daily life, suddenly it just seemed “normal.”

Me and my stunning host mom!

Which is one of the themes emphasized the most during my time there: Relativity, and subjectivity… How an environment or background can affect how an experience is, well, experienced. - How the “norm” isn’t judged by what you think should be expected, but by what the general populous has learned to expect. - How what seems “better” or “best” is typically determined by people who have never experienced the alternative. - How what I am impressed by as an outsider might be completely overlooked by an insider; or, on the other hand, how what’s completely overlooked by me can be of intimate value to the insider. - How the things that make the list of “wants” and “needs” aren’t universal.

There is much more on that subject, too - specific examples and illustrate these thoughts, experiences that influenced them, and many other thoughts altogether - but of course I can’t dwell too long on it. (Concision and compaction, two nouns that never seem to be very popular with me.)

A classic meal of céeb in massive quantities.

But what do I miss? MSG and oil aside, I miss the tasty food: the céebu jën, mafé, yassa, and lots of French fries. Street food, too: Millet-plantain donuts, fresh mangoes, pain au chocolat, grilled corn, Nem’s and pain chinois, peanuts – fresh, roasted, or sugar-coated, bags of water, baobab juice, and bissap.

And each of those for only 5-50¢. The acquisition of a jaayfanda was far too easy.

What else… I miss: My car rapide ride to school – easily one of my favorite parts of each day. Babacar, the friendly boutique man who sold me my morning baguette. The happy seller of phone credit by the Elton gas station. SOUL ice cream from Elton. Asalaam malekum-ing and nanga def-ing and shaking hands with every person I pass. The slow lifestyle and the welcoming atmosphere of teranga. The great friends I made in my host family, my classmates, my neighbors. I miss the beautiful boubous and bright colors, and tailored clothes for less than the store-bought version. The afternoon Biskrem and strawberry milk to accompany my homework. The haunting call to prayer waking me each morning. The mirror-filled clubs and the youza. The goats in backyards and on rooftops. Bargaining with the taxi driver (waxaaling in general; I was a pro.) Walks along the Corniche. Ataaya. Music. Activism. Thinking about things I didn’t normally think about. My wonderful host family. An intrinsic sense of community. Nighttime chats on the terrace.

I could continue with much, much more.

Moussa, King of Ataaya, at our farewell tea party.

There are, of course, the things I don’t miss at all, like the rotting animal carcasses in the ditches; the shameful persistence of the Talibe; the corrupt government, the extreme poverty; the classism; the sexism; the lack of education; being yelled at – “Toubab! Toubab!” – and never getting a break from being reminded that I’m an outsider; electricity cuts and blisteringly hot temperatures; getting stranded on an island while deathly sick; garbage everywhere; being treated differently – usually better, many times worse – for being white, or American, or female, or all three; etc.

Yet, somehow even the things that upset me the most weren’t enough to ruin my time over there, which I was enjoying superbly. Now, the further away I get from my time in Senegal the less and less are the unpleasant moments and thoughts important in my selective memory. Time and distance tend to do away with the imperfections, so I’m left with a fond, pleasantly nostalgic feeling of my semester.

I’ll keep missing it, for at least awhile yet. It’s hard not to when little moments throughout the day still remind me of things back there and keep the feelings very vivid and present. However, I don’t think it’s a bad thing to miss it. Missing Senegal highlights how much I really did appreciate my time there, and even though it was very, very difficult to leave, I was happy to go home, too. I can’t have all good things at once, and lucky for me I’m a happy kid with a great family to come home to and more fun adventures to look forward to.

Perhaps I'll get to go back one day. But until then, ba baneen yoon, Sénégal. Insh allah.

The Talibé outside Ouakam's bakery.

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

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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.