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.

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.

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!

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!