Adventure Preparedness

The last few days have passed by in a flash, full of chaotic packing and tearful goodbyes and deep breaths of Yoff air (which carries the scent of saltwater and fish and fires).  Last night, there was a party at the school with food and tropical juices and a loud whirlwind of goodbye hugs and pictures.  This morning, some family and friends helped me carry my bags to the road to get a taxi as I said my farewells to the Samba home.  Mama Dior was the first good-bye, and her tears triggered mine within microseconds.  She and Yaboye both kept telling me, in Wolof, that “everything will be fine, you must be brave, call us.”  I’m trying not to get teary-eyed just writing this entry.  I couldn’t possibly convey in words how much their love had meant to me these past two months, but I left a long thank-you note and gave the deepest hugs I could give. 

After a seven-hour flight, I’m now spending the night in Istanbul before continuing on to Tel Aviv tomorrow morning.  The hotel has air conditioning and heated water and full-length mirrors, and I’m loving it, but I’m starting to feel the first inklings of some culture shock.

I’m very excited to see my parents tomorrow and begin the Israel leg of this summer adventure, although I think that I’ll be accidentally speaking French and Wolof to Israelis throughout the entire trip.

Senegal, I miss you already, and I will carry you with me always.

angeligo asked: do you recommend wearing a visible earing? and how open should I be about the fact that I'm jewish?

The earring is totally up to you. You’ll probably get teased for it by Senegalese family and friends, but I don’t think they’ll make a huge deal out of it. They seem pretty accustomed to white men doing things that Senegalese men generally don’t. Also, you can always take it out if you feel like you’re getting weird looks (which you’ll probably get anyway, so it’ll be difficult to determine whether it’s the earring or the skin color or the different fashions).

I’m Jewish, too, and I had the same dilemma before I came about whether to tell anyone. But one day my homestay mother (who’s rather religious herself) asked me about my religious beliefs, and I just decided to tell her. She didn’t even bat an eyelash. She was more concerned that my homestay sister, Lindsay, said that she wasn’t anything. After that, I told my best Senegalese friend here, too. She didn’t seem to understand the difference between Judaism and Christianity. The Islam here is very different than Middle Eastern Islam, in a number of ways. But I’m still very careful about it. After the program ends, I’m meeting up with my parents in Israel for a week, and I haven’t told my family here about it.

This week is our last week of lectures before final presentations and research papers are due.  Next week, we’ll be taking our language exams and traveling up to Guede Chantier one more time.  I’m planning a weekend trip to the Gambia with some other Americans, which is an interesting feat without bus schedules or train schedules or set prices, but I’ll let you know how it goes.

In Senegal, the general population follows two sports: soccer (futbol) and bere (“beh-deh”), which is a type of wrestling.  It takes place in a sand pit, and seems like a combination of sumo wrestling and WWE.  Yesterday, there was a big televised fight taking place at the stadium in Dakar.  We decided against buying tickets after our friend warned us about the rowdy crowd, but Lindsay and I made a point to watch it on TV with our family.  All of the women and kids sat together in front of the TV to watch, with the women hushing the kids whenever they became too excited or distracting.  One of the fighters, Modou Lo, lives in Yoff Layene (our neighborhood) and is a friend of the family.  Him and the other man spent several minutes locked in a sumo wrestling stance, leaning into each other and grabbing each others’ waists, gaining and losing ground in the sands of the stadium.  After a few tense minutes, there was a flurry of activity and Modou Lo dragged his opponent to the ground.  All of a sudden, all of the women in our family screamed and jumped in the air and began to dance and sing, throwing their legs in the air and stomping and chanting in unison and jumping up and down.  I wish I had filmed it; it was amazing.  Some other friends of the family ran by in the next half hour, wearing “Modou Lo” shirts and running in to give hugs and shrieks before continuing on to other friends.  It was all very exciting.

On another note, I’m starting to get eaten alive by mosquitoes at night.  But another girl on the trip counted 94 bug bites this morning, and I’m definitely not at that point.  The bugs are all part of the experience, I think.  The ants and cockroaches here are massive, like small house pets.  One night, there was a wild and crazy cockroach party in my room.  I opened the door and found a huge dead one, lying on its back in the middle of the floor with its legs in the air.  I groaned and picked up my sandals to cradle it between them and throw it out the door, and in the process distributed a trail of cockroach legs across the room.  Which is when I noticed another cockroach, very alive, scuttling across the floor to my bed.  Screeching, I leapt after it to stop it from reaching its destination and threw my shoes at it (it’s shocking that this tactic didn’t work, right?).  I like to think of myself as a relatively calm and stable person, but I definitely spent the next twenty minutes hysterically shrieking and chasing after this cockroach (and another, which appeared directly after), while Lindsay peered around the doorway from the safety of her room and laughed heartily at my attempts. 

This last Friday, my wallet was stolen in a scam.  It was a particularly hot day, and I left school early with a stomachache (an all-too-common malady on this trip).  On my way home, I went to the ATM, then continued on and distractedly said hello to the people that I pass every day (the men selling phone cards on the street, the mango vendors, the men sitting in front of their houses in the shade in their buu-buus and socializing) while daydreaming about getting home and taking a cold shower and napping.  A man walking the same path as me said hello, and I made an effort to smile in a friendly way and respond.  He asked, in French, “You’re a student at the school over there, right?”  When I said yes, he said, “I work at the school, at the reception desk.  I got the job through Mustafa (the name of one of the French teachers).”  I felt guilty for not recognizing him, since there are so many people at the school and I forget their names often.  We chatted as we walked, talking about how he was going to buy some water bottles for the students and the boutique with the best prices.  Right before I turned down the street to my house, he asked me if I could help him get some change to buy the water bottles.  I knew I was feeling out of it, and I didn’t really understand what he wanted from me, but I assumed it was just the language barrier so I got my wallet out and agreed to walk with him to the boutique. He offered to carry the plastic bag I was carrying, which held my water bottle and some toilet paper that I bought at the shop, and I handed it over because I still wasn’t feeling well and my backpack was heavy enough.  As we walked, warning bells started to ring in my head as we continued to talk about the school and some of his information didn’t seem right.  When he asked if I could pull out some CFAs for him at the ATM so he could give me American dollars in exchange, I told him that I didn’t feel comfortable doing so.  He persisted, saying that I should respect that he was telling the truth, and that there was no one else at the school so he needed my help.  I went into the booth and called a staff person to ask about this man, and she told me that there wasn’t anyone at the school with his name or description.  I stepped out and told him that I wasn’t going to exchange money with him because I didn’t recognize him, which resulted in an unpleasant argument and me demanding my plastic bag back.  I marched away, a little shaken, and got half way home before I remembered that, in the confusion, I had put my wallet (which held the equivalent of one hundred US dollars and my debit card) inside the plastic bag.  I opened the bag, and my wallet was gone. 

It was an important lesson about listening to my warning bells, and balancing them against my desire to be friendly and open-minded about cultural differences.  Mama Djo always tells me, “Mantou, il faut être vigilante!” (You must be careful!), probably every other time I leave the house.  The whole experience made me feel like an idiot.  I sat down in the shade of the wall of someone’s house and called my parents to cancel the debit card, and the heat and stomachache and unpleasant situation and feelings of incompetency all piled up.  I’m not usually a crier, but the comfort of hearing my parents’ voices, contrasted with the scam and the tiredness, got to me.  As I sat crying on a rock, on the side of a sandy street, carrying my heavy backpack and my plastic bag of water and toilet paper, the Senegalese people walking by me gave me very concerned looks.  They called out “Ça va?” as they passed, including taxi drivers and the women selling fruit on the corner.  It made me smile and look forward to the big hug from Mama Djo waiting for me at home.

I’m spending my Saturday afternoon sitting in a cute local Internet café, snacking on mangos, sipping bissap, and cherishing the wireless connection.  The ceiling is made of thatch, with lazily spinning built-in fans, and the walls are covered in African paintings and tapestries and maps of Senegal.  There’s some French pop radio station quietly pouring from a speaker in the corner with random African reggae songs thrown in every few minutes.  I’m sticky and gross from the heat and humidity, but this is a lovely oasis from the African sun.

I wanted to dedicate this entry to some funny quotes and stories that I’ve been neglecting, in my fixation on deeper meanings and philosophical ramblings.  First, a quote from a Senegalese student in Guede Chantier.  During our stay, we were split into several groups, mixed with Senegalese and Americans, to spread across different homestay placements in the village.  There were six of us the mayor’s house, but the largest group had fifteen students and was assigned to a big three-story house across town.  The girls all slept on the roof on mats and the boys slept on other floors.  One hot and stuffy night, as the girls were falling asleep on their mats, one of the Senegalese male students, Lamine, wandered up in his boxers to make a call on his cell phone.  Lamine is built like an American football player and wears his baseball caps cocked to the side, which (when combined with the swagger in his step) would make him look like a complete hoodlum if not for his sweet smile.  Also, he goes to art school in Dakar and is one of the most talented painters I’ve ever met.  So, Lamine wandered onto the roof on his cell phone where the girls, who were scantily clothed to deal with the hot night, immediately shouted at him to leave and go somewhere else to make his call.  He, in his thick Senegalese accent, responded helplessly with, “Where do you want me to go?  I’m in my naked!”  I don’t even know what happened after that, I just loved that quote so much that I didn’t ask.

This next story took place during one of my first weekends in Dakar.  A group of us American students went to a nightclub behind the Presidential Palace, where you can smell the salty air from the beach (located several feet away) and the warm breeze ruffles the palm tree fronds surrounding you.  It was great to let loose in such a beautiful place, dancing to both American frat music and African reggae party music.  I danced for a bit with a Senegalese physical fitness trainer named Mandiaye (“mahn-jai”).  After spending some time dancing and chatting and laughing, a song came on that all of the Senegalese people at the club seemed to know and love, and they all began to sing along.  Mandiaye, all of a sudden, begins to CAW to the beat of the song.  Very loudly.  Like a crow or a predatory bird creature of some sort.  CAW. CAW.  Sometimes with a throaty gurgle mixed in.  I was so shocked by it, and I jumped a little and cringed every time he squawked.  He didn’t get the hint though, so the squawking continued into the next few songs, and I was soon laughing too hard to dance and had to excuse myself.

In general, the Senegalese are some of the most genuinely friendly and giving people that I’ve ever encountered.  It’s been so easy to develop friendships with people all over Yoff, from the security guard at the ATM to the clerk at the local boutique.  The security guards here seem to all be men in their late twenties who’ve come from villages around the country to find work in Dakar.  Some of the young men living in our house are security guards, and we see them come home from work every night in their blue uniforms and polished black boots.  Apparently, security guards are all trained in the same place and then sent out to different assignments across the city.  We recently found out that Abdoul (who lives across the hall and is the man from my earlier chicken story) is one of the president’s security guards.  

And, for my one philosophical moment today, here’s a quote from the women’s council in Guede Chantier.  When asked about the secret to happiness, one women responded, “It’s very simple.  Be flexible.  Be humble.  And people will want to be around you.”

Today, we finished the last of our interviews in Fresbe, another district without access to piped water.  Our water group has worked very hard over these past nine days to reach as many people as possible, and I’m both proud and exhausted.  Tomorrow night, we have a dance party with the citizens of Guede that will probably last until our departure time (4am on Sunday).  I’m guessing that the 13-hour bus ride home will be noticeably less energetic than the journey here.

While I’m incredibly excited to return to my Samba family in Yoff (along with Internet, the school’s air conditioning, and showers that don’t involve buckets), I know I’ll soon be pining for Guede.  It took a few days to acclimate to the heat and sand, but my fondness for the town and people swiftly overtook me.  The first word I learned in Pulaar was “Adiarama” (thank you), because the people here are so helpful and giving that I need to say it every thirty seconds or so.  Greetings are also absolutely vital.  The Senegalese value greetings very highly, and it’s considered impolite to enter a room without greeting every person individually.  Even if you’ve never met a person before, you spend several minutes asking them how their day is going, how their family is doing, and how they’re feeling.  It’s absolutely wonderful. 

My homestay aunt in Guede, Kadia, has developed a special fondness for me (and I for her). Whenever we pass each other, we ask about how the other is doing and feeling (in a mixture of French and the little Pulaar I’ve picked up), and she gives me these wonderfully loving smiles. The other Americans in the house have grown jealous.  Tonight, Kadya introduced me to her son, who is currently studying law at university, in a suspiciously familiar way.  I’ve also made a wonderful friend in the shopkeeper next door, Modou.  We buy frozen bissap (a sweet juice made from hibiscus plants) from him at least three times a day, and I sometimes just wander over to chat, so we’ve bonded.  I think he’s an uncle of some sort in the family, as well. 

I’ve been wanting to devote an entire entry to describing my wonderful Senegalese friend, Maimouna.  She’s my protector, my translator, my guide, and my friend.  The chirping crickets are lulling me to sleep right now, but hopefully I’ll have some time tomorrow.