Coupures de Courant et Chameaux

So this weekend was very exciting, starting off with a talk in public health class about STD’s, HIV, etc. made more interesting  by random staff members walking in on the powerpoint presentation. It was really hard to focus, because I knew that in a few hours, I would be leaving for a weekend trip to the “desert” of Lompoul (a short expanse of sand dunes about 95 miles north of Dakar just inland from the ocean). Packing was made complicated by a general brownout/power outage due to infrastructure problems and difficulty funding the combustibles that power the system* made more complicated by the corruption (coupure de courant has become an integral part of my French vocabulary here.) Even though my family’s house does not get affected as much because we are on the same network as a bunch of embassies and hospitals, this was one of the rare times that the power was out for more than 12 hours (no storms or accidents on the grid, just a simple electricity cut) so all of the neighbors and my family were milling about outside where it was cooler. This was one of the few times I’ve had an extended conversation with my host dad, when we were talking with one of our neighbors about power outages in the US and their opinions on country development. The electricity cut issue is a grave problem here on many levels (think about doing business, medical equipment, food storage, not to mention other day-to-day activities that require electricity), and one that with the many Senegalese who have to experience the consequences on an almost daily basis, I hope is addressed soon.

*Senegal is not a petroleum producing country

Thankfully, during the night the power came back on, and I believe stayed on the whole weekend, but I lived without it as me and three other girls in the MSID program went to the desert. It was so exciting the leave Dakar, and to see some other part of the country. The Gare Routière in Dakar was the trial of endurance we had to pass to get on our desert expedition. When Lizzie described it as belonging to “one of the circles of hell in Dante’s Inferno,” I was prepared for some craziness, (crowds, informality, a big space, etc.) but not on the level of what we encountered. Even as the taxi pulled up, there were already people trying to talk to me through the window (promoters for chauffeurs) which was highly irritating as I wanted time to process the situation and find a central location to get information (turns out that doesn’t exist, or if it does, you have to pass through too many overeager salespeople to successfully find it). I didn’t realize how much even something as seemingly straight-forward as transportation could be culturally influenced. In the US, I can walk into a bus station, an airport, etc. that I’ve never seen in my life by myself and anonymously read the abundance of directional signs, ask uniformed personnel for assistance, be assured of a fixed price for my ticket, and plan around a relatively reliable departure-arrival time point for the transport. For better or for worse, that’s definitely not the case here. Thankfully, we were able to get into our sept-place (think of worn-down 20+ year old extended station wagon with 2 rows of back seats which all together seat seven) and cruise down RN-2 (which I must stay, was a very nice road once we were able to get out the congested Dakar area and roll the windows down). It was different to see a lot of vegetation and small towns (and to breathe somewhat clean air!) We got so many pictures of the trees and small stands along the road side.

Once we got to Lompoul, the agent of the campement came to pick us up in an old truck. We slung our bags in the cab, and climbed in the benches in the back as it started to downpour. We offroaded it to our camp, and were totally high on life as we got soaked in the rain. The camp was neat, because were we the only ones there besides the staff. We were right on the edge of the sand dunes, and we to “deface the desert” (carve our names etc. in the sand, run up and down sand dunes, lie in the sand, etc.) It was my first time in a “desert” that looked liked the pictures I’ve seen in books, (sorry California high desert, you are in another category). After our chameau ride (camels!) which was really fun, we had appetizer and dinner (which I must say, for a collection of tents without electricity and little running water if any was like dining in a five star restaurant. We feel asleep under the stars (well, at the edge of the dining/hang out tent) after watching the sunset and the lightning from a distant thunderstorm. It was totally awesome (check out the pictures)! The next day, we were on our way back all recharged from being outside of the city, but had to face the gare routière in Kérébar and Thiés and an incredibly irritating sept-place driver who tried to cheat us by changing our agreement en route (all I have to say, oral contracts aren’t worth the paper they’re written on, and it’s been tough to get used to the perspective that foreigners can be perceived by some as ATM’s more than human beings).

All in all, I'm so glad I went on the trip, even if the travel was a little hectic, it was fun to hang out and see a little more of Senegal.

Pictures really do say a thousand words!

Although pictures say a thousand words, a thousand words upload much, much faster than one picture! (one minute vs forty mintues!) So I've got some catching up to do, but I don't want to hold up the lunch program at home or be late for class, so captions and pictures to follow later.

Me and my host Maman. She is a very nice lady, and has made my stay here so comfortable by teaching me some Wolof phrases and asking about my day.

The view of Mermoz Premiere Porte from the balcony. Past the parked cars (center of the picture) is Cheikh Anta Diop, one of the main drags in the area that eventually goes by the University in Dakar. You can see the cinder block on our neighbor's house, because they are in the middle of a remodel phase, like many of the buildings in the city.

 

The balcony, one of my favorite places to quick catch an evening breeze and a glimpse of the neighborhood activities. Lately, I've been stopping to play with the troupe of neighborhood little kids here on my way home from school, but keep forgetting to bring my camera!

The sidewalk in front of the house

 

My host sister Khady (left) and two of her friends during Korite, wearing Senegalese boubous. I would like to know the secret of how everyone looks so gorgeous around here all the time!

The trip to Goree Island, on the Chaloupe (ferry). This was the ferry that a few of us almost missed, so they basically hauled us on board as it was leaving (no gangplank!).

The beach on Goree Island, it was picturesque other than quite a bit of floating trash.

The door of no return at the Maison des Escalves, a very powerful image, especially in person!

 

A baobab tree on Goree. Baobabs are important to West African culture, as they were often a meeting spot for negotiations, etc. The trees can live to be 1000 years old!

Walking through Goree Island

Walking along the shore. I found out some people swin the distance from Goree (where we are standing) to Dakar (the downtown is what you see in the distance). We went swimming at the beach, but definitely not all the way across the harbor.

 

The Chaloupe again, but I had to add this picture, because the name of the boat is "Beer" Waly the program coordinator probably thought I had sunstroke because I kept laughing at the name.

WARC, my new school in Dakar.

The courtyard of WARC where we hang out to eat, chat, and do homework (so usually there's a lot more people milling around)

Look out for the bones

Yesterday at 4am we sent off Kaya aka “Haby” to Louga, where she will be for a week. I felt so bad for her because she hasn’t been feeling well, but I hope she likes Louga and learns a lot.  5 hours later was the 3 hours of Wolof class (still like Wolof interrogation, but hopefully with more vocab it will start becoming more of a conversation). We have a lot of catching up to do because our class (they divided us into two classes of 9) convinced the Wolof teacher to tell tales out of school about his time teaching Peace Corps volonteers rather than actually teaching Wolof grammar etc. I don’t think I’ve laughed so much during a class in a long time! It was good stress relief if nothing else. I haven’t been speaking much Wolof lately, but yesterday I started practicing again with Maman, and I had another good conversation (as much as I could in Wolof) with our maid, Mariama, who has taken up the “Ngone Ndiaye” name game along with everyone else. This makes me feel more at ease, because I have never been in a situation where there is a maid, so I was not sure how to act towards Mariama, especially since she speaks about as much French as I can speak Wolof. Overall, I’m thankful my family is very indulgent of my curiousity and likes to hang out with me, even if we don’t really go anywhere or do much.

After class, and lunch of the classic Cebbu jen (later this week, I think I’ll need to dedicate a post to the food situation in Senegal, because it is interesting), I went on an expedition to change over more dollars to CFA. This was only my second time ever changing currency, so I wasn’t as savvy as I could have been. Sometimes, I feel inadequate, because people want to speak to me in English if I don’t catch the French the first time, like at the bank. Usually, it’s not the French that’s the problem, but making out the words over all the background noise in Dakar, or if there is a quick topic change in the conversation and I have trouble matching the sounds with the category of words I was expecting to hear. With my learning style preference for visual and my mediocre hearing, it’s also been tough picking up the Wolof at the rate I did French, because I don’t have the recourse of reading books, articles, etc. to learn words as much as in French or in English. Afterwards, as a treat, I bought some Bouye (Baobab fruit) juice for the family and a Jeune Afrique news magazine for myself for when I’m up in the morning and no one else is available to talk.

Even if I was the bumbling American at the bank, I was thankful to have my CFA and that later in the evening, I got to go jogging on the Corniche, one of the nicer paved roads in Dakar that follows the western shoreline. It felt great to do cardio again, to not have to speak any langauge, and to be able to outrun any commentary on the street there may have been. Later in the evening, we had Cebbu jen again, but it was funny because whenever we eat fish, Maman will randomly say in English “Look out for the bones,” the family joke lately. I’m not really a fan eating fish in any form, especially not when it’s staring at me from the plate with its empty eye socket, tail, skin, and lots of small bones. I’m proud to say that I have been able to get over the disgust I have towards fish to the point where I can eat the necessary bites to make my host family happy, and we’ve even turned it into a joke.

As much as we eat fish around here, and I hear random “look out for the bones,” in mealtime conversation at home, it struck me as a good metaphor for what I’ve learned here, on the ground, about culture (I’ve had a lot of unstructured internet-free time here (read, bordeom), so please pardon the metaphor.) So much of our culture is fundamental to who we are and how we operate, like a skeleton, but it is also hidden too. It is great, and interesting to discover, which has made my stay so far in Dakar both fun and informative. But some you come across, and choke on, either because it’s difficult to get around or you weren’t expecting it. For me, it’s been the difficulty of planning my day, an essential part of my life in the States, when few people around me here regularily plan, or at least make plans in ways that I’m aware of and understand.Hopefully, as I get better at “looking out for the bones” and learn more about the day-to-day life of Senegalese people, I’ll be able to incorporate the things I want to do and places I want to do with everyone else’s days. In the meantime, at least I have jogging now as an option to fight the cabin fever I get so easily and the mental boredom should go away as I start pondering my research questions for my paper and finding ways to get answers for them. Also, I’m curious to see how daily life changes when school starts up, as everyone in my host family is either a student or a teacher, the start of school should bring some interesting happenings and news.

Look forward to more news soon! Salutations          

Demander la route…

Ok, back to the wifi and back to work after a very relaxing weekend in Dakar, especially with the cooler evenings after hot mornings. On Friday, after public health class (which, I have to say, is turning out to be one of my favorites even though I am auditing it, if only I could get my interest in biology/health to fit in better with my carrier plans!)I chilled at home with my host family, watching music videos on TV, because sadly I was too tired to go anywhere, plus I was needed for some translation at home too. Now that Amadou, one of my older brothers is back from his volunteer work in St. Louis, conversation is more interesting with another person, especially when he throws in some random English with the Wolof and French. Even though I speak English with everyone in MSID, English sounds weird when I speak it at home with my host family, because we always speak French.

Also my host papa has been more talkative lately which is cool. At home I’m blessed to have a dad who spends time with Mom, Robyn, and me when he’s not working and “bothers” us to find out how we are. It’s been a bit of a cultural adjustment here, but I think Papa Ndiaye likes me well enough. Last Friday, a cousin and his wife (very nice people) came over, and he introduced me to them. Maman, Papa, and I talked about what I thought about Senegal, and what I am learning at school. It was a surpise when the relatives asked me a question in Wolof, which Papa translated as “demander la route” or basically asking my permission to leave. This was interesting, and definitely an honor, as I’m a visitor in the house.  

Saturday morning, I walked down the road to “My Shop” a round-the-clock convenience store cum internet café which turns into a sort of buy-and-mix-your-own-drinks bar after sundown (there’s really no US equivalent to this that I know of) to email in my paper on the role of women in Senegal. I was very proud of myself, because I made it there without being hissed at once and was only honked at by taxis two times, so I must be catching onto the secret of how to be somewhat inconscipucous xonq-nopp (another sobriquet for caucasians here like toubab, I think Maman said it means “red ears”).

At least, navigation is coming a lot easier and I’ve had a better time of directing taxis (and dealing with my absolute aversion to them), except for Saturday afternoon when getting to Yoff beach would have been a total fail without the help of a nice French-speaking fish merchant. He helped me find the rendez-vous point with the rest of the group from Sacre-Coeur on the beach, which was a much larger area than I expected. So far, Yoff has to be my favorite beach: minimal garbage, not too crowded, sandy, and gentle waves. I’m definitely going to miss living less than a mile from the ocean when I go back home. Although, I need to do a better job of taking advantage of things like the beaches while I’m here, but it can be tough to organize everyone with sporadic internet, and the school schedule.  

Even if I haven’t gotten out in Dakar as much as I would like, I’m discovering things that truly are cultural that I take for granted as being universal which in itself is a good lesson. Take navigation: on Sunday, round two of finding the church did not involve walking through the HLM, but even showing the taxi driver the map with the church location circled did not result in a straight shot there. When the driver turned off the VDN (a highway) too early, I expected he would have gone back to the VDN to find the next exit according to the map and try that, but instead he stopped to ask a few people where the church was. After stopping by a large Catholic church, and the old location of the Methodist church, we were directed to the new location. Distance is also very different, given the poor condition of many roads (especially after a rainstorm) and at times heavy traffic (not just cars, but also a variety of buses, car rapides, trucks, and along the sides, carts and pedestrians.) Even something like Yoff beach, which is only about 4 miles from my house is what my host sister considers “far.”  As I get to know the city better, I think I will be adding onto my “taxi stories” but even that is a part of the experience.

Peace from Senegal, and I miss you all. Hope fall is treating you nicely back at home.

A Baptism and a Funeral

Monday afternoon was a very exciting day because I had the chance to go to a Baptism party after class. The baby’s dad is a part of my host dad’s extended family, and I got to meet 50+ family members and close family friends. Although I had to miss the ceremony that was during my morning classes, I heard they chose the baby’s name and whispered “Amadou” in his ear. Little Amadou was very precious, and miraculously, slept completely through the din of the party. Most of the conversation was in Wolof, but it was fun to observe the family socializing. The closeness and chatter reminded me of the funeral reception I was invited to last week for a close neighbor, although there was also a lot of praying and eating of couscous at that celebration. At the funeral, there was also a rotation of people who would sing to their respective Muslim religious leaders (in Arabic) and it was interesting to observe the diversity of neighbors and family at the reception, most were Muslim, but belonging to different sub-groups and I believe I saw the Catholic neighbors too. It was nice that my host family invited me to the reception, and brought me up to introduce me to the family of the deceased so I could shake their hands. I was thankful that it was not necessary to wear a head-covering at the baptism like it was at the funeral reception, because it was very hot yesterday.

 At the baptism, while everyone was chatting, I played with 2-year-old Ahmed (who didn’t care that I can’t speak Wolof), and found out he was a big fan of my sunglasses. This resulted in an adorable picture, but since I forgot my memory card yesterday, that will have to wait until I have the camera adapter.

A big surprise for me was when all of a sudden, the griot showed up after the lunch. I was confused because this lady (at the time, I didn’t know she was a griot) did not have the family resemblance and when she spoke to me, her French was heavily accented. So, I was quite confused when she dropped a 5000 cFA note in my lap and started talking fast in Wolof. Everyone around me was laughing at us, and thankfully, my host sister Fatimata bailed me out and gave me a coin to give back to the griot in addition to her 5000 cFA. She explained later, that in modern times, griots find out about occasions and go around flattering party guests to ask for money. So much for the historian-diplomat-advisor-musician griots I learned about in African history class, I got to meet the party-crashing variety. My host family was laughing hysterically about this, because the griot was making a big deal about my appearance (I was the only étrangère at the party) especially round face which is not really a common feature in Senegal. Even though I’m able to pass for French, British, German, or Canadian around Dakar with my level of French, unfortunately there is no escaping standing out in a crowd, especially when there are vendors, taxis, and apparently griots involved.

A Weekend of Firsts

So where to start, it’s been a really busy weekend so no time for the wifi until today. I have to say, internet access has been a challenge, not so much in that I can’t live without the internet, but that everyone else is operating at the speed and in the manner of readily available and reliable wifi. Also, I have been trying for 3 hours today to upload pictures here, but the blog keeps shutting down when I try, so next post is going to be all pics. Again, I apologize for keeping you all in suspense and for writing so much, but here we go with the weekend:

On Saturday, I went back to Gorée Island with Mary (also in the MSID program) Sara, her Italian sister living with the family, and her Senegalese host brother Danny. The first time on Goree, we went together as the MSID group, and saw the Maison des Esclaves (slavery museum) and the Musee de la femme (women’s museum) pictures to follow next post. This Saturday, we just walked around the historical paths and swam in the ocean (yes!). If you ever have the chance to visit Goree, definitely go to the Maison des Esclaves.  It’s very powerful, especially the “door of no return” which leads out directly to the ocean where ships would dock. I hate to take up a cliché, but the only way I could describe the experience is that the Maison des Esclaves made the history I learned about the slave trade come alive. Afterwards, we walked around downtown, but bypassed the marché because it was very sunny, and the toubabs (fair skinned people) in the group were already burned despite high SPF sunscreen. I had my first marché (market) experience earlier in the week, at Sandagar in downtown. It was a mélée of a place, and it was tough to shop when the various vendors are constantly competing for the attention of customers but definitely a cultural experience. Now that I understand the bargaining process better, I’ll be able to buy something next time. I also had my first club/dancing experience, (lots of English music?! what?) which was cool since everyone in the group ignored the fact that I can’t dance.

To continue on the firsts this week, I also had my first experience getting lost in the HLM (habitations à loyer modéré, low-income housing) with Grace (another MSID’er) as we were making our way across town to find a protestant church on Sunday morning. It was quite a scene, and goes to show that Dakar is most definitely a city of contrasts and that people (in Senegal) are remarkably resilient despite incredibly difficult circumstances. In one part of the city, people have amenities like wifi and for the most part, reliable electricity, and in another, there is what I would describe as an open sewer in the middle of the street.  Thankfully, with the help of the taxi driver (he didn’t really speak French), his Catholic francophone friend we consulted for directions, and some folks from the church who had a car, Grace and I made it to the protestant church exactly on time at 10am, although it didn’t start actually until 10:15 and finished at 12:30. The service was great (especially the bilingual message in Wolof and French, how cool!) and the people all friendly toward us. Most were Senegalese, although we met two guys from the Central African Republic, and we heard there are often other ex-pats from various countries in Africa that come. Afterwards, we ate lunch at a restaurant with the pastor (I almost cried when my salad came out, because fresh veges and fruits [some of my favorite foods] are usually expensive and not easily available in Dakar) and then we got a tour of the west part of Dakar (Ngor, a former fishing village and now a beach and also the Yoff neighborhood).

I'm speaking... language?

I’m speaking…. Language?

So the language dynamic of this trip to Senegal has been different for me, living in almost a 100% Anglophone environment up until now. The first two days, I got headaches from speaking French. As I’m getting used to French, it’s harder to either interpret French/English at home for Haby (who can now count to ten in French and say hello). It's tough to listen to music in English which is what now gives me a headache, so I ended up switching to instrumental tunes. Sometimes, I forget which language I’m supposed to speak to whom or I’ll mix the two languages.

The fact that was inattendu for me is that language hasn’t been too much of a barrier for adjustment, (except for the friendly debates on religion one time and US foreign policy with my younger host brother, those were the hardest things I’ve ever done in French!) My tune might change if I leave the city for the internship phase, because French is widely spoken in Dakar, even if it’s not everyone’s first choice.

What has been a challenge is the culturally-based customs that manifest in the language. The salutations or greetings are a great example. I’ve gotten the basic Wolof and French forms of the greetings down (Asaalam Aleikoum, maleikoum salaam, nanga deff, maa ngi fi rekk, etc.) In Senegalese culture, verbal greetings in general are a way to acknowledge a person’s humanity; it’s in the nuances that you establish the amount of social distance. I’m still figuring out exactly who I’m supposed to greet. Lately, I’ve been greeting people in my neighborhood or near WARC, because I might see them again or they may know someone I know. For someone who is used to city living in the US, where you can mostly pass by people or acknowledge them silently with eye contact, a nod, or sometimes a smile, it’s been an adjustment to get over the instinct not to talk to strangers. 

Wolof has been interesting to learn so far, because as a foreigner, Senegalese people expect me to speak no Wolof, or if I do, to speak it well, so they laugh when I answer “tuuti rekk” (just a little) to the question “Do you speak Wolof?” This being my first time in a francophone country, I’ve never had the experience of speaking just a little French in a place where everyone speaks it. My vocab in Wolof is definitely less than 50 words, and Wolof class feels a lot like an interrogation at this phase (What’s your name, Where do you live, What do you study, Where do you study, What is this object, Who is that person, Where is …) although the professor is fantastic and class is actually  fun. I can tell my mind is able to process all of this faster each time. Improvement from when the prof said “Nanga tudd?” and here was me trying to answer…. [pause] Ngone… [longer awkward pause] laa tudd… ci Wolof. Plus, I’m finally curing myself of answering “Oui” (for yes) instead of “Waaw” (pronounced like the English Wow!)  As my host Maman says, petit à petit, ca vient.