Oh Blog, I know I've neglected you and I'm sorry. But if only you understood the existential and absurd tragicomedy that is Spring Semester Abroad '08, then maybe you wouldn't look so sad and despondent. Seriously, my stay here in Senegal has actually been one very very very long day punctuated by meals. Or like Groundhog Day in Africa. I have to keep re-doing the same day until I have discovered who I really am and the meaning of life and true love and stuff.
In order to actually recount anything that has happened to me, I would have to write a seminal, groundbreaking work in the post-post-modern-anti-reality aesthetic. WHICH DOESN'T EXIST YET. But here I go trying anyway.
Every day, this is pretty much what happens:
1. Wake up in time for breakfast (7-10 every day except 8-10:30 on Sundays); very important, breakfast is the best meal of the day. Bread with butter (or cheese if you get there early enough!) and tea with too much sugar and powdered milk in a bowl. Sometimes, if you get there at exactly the right time, there is hot chocolate.
2. Change location. Sometimes I go back to my room but usually I go to the UFR, which is where all the classrooms are and the computer room is. Lately I have been on this kick where I get up early and exercise. I am too embarassed to exercise outside most of the time (it is rare that women here exercise) so I do whatever calisthenics/pilates/yoga melange I can manage in my little room.
3. Decide where I am going to have lunch. This is possibly the most important and most challenging part of my day. Mostly, the Resto (ie, school cafeteria) sucks; however, there is a NEW Resto that opened this semester that is usually AWESOME. Generally, I make sure that I check the meal schedule that is posted in my Village before I go to breakfast so I can plan step 2. with step 3. already in mind. If I am at the UFR I am much closer to the NEW and AWESOME Resto, but even more conveniently, I am also equidistant from the buvettes (re: shops that sell assorted food products and make traditional senegalese plates for lunch) on both of the residential campuses. I much prefer the buvettes on Campus 2, where I live, mostly because I know the ladies who work in them and they think me and my little American friends are hilarious and get really excited every time we come by. Given that, if not even the NEW Resto seems appetizing, I head to a buvette where I can not only enjoy a usually delicious plate of rice and other stuff, but I can chat in Wolof with my friends as well.
4. Find something to occupy myself until it is time to go to lunch. Entirely dependent on the decisions made in step 2.
5. Go to lunch.
6. Change locations. Sometimes I go back to the UFR, sometimes I go back to my room, and sometimes I go to a friend's room. This is also a very important decision because after lunch is visiting time. One thing I have learned about myself is that I am much more anti-social that one would think; I do not like having people come to my room to say hello to me when I don't know that they are coming, even though that is a very nice thing that people do. I just don't like it. I spend a lot of time avoiding visitors, to the point that I think I have a reputation for being hard to locate and never in my room.
7. Decide where I am going to have dinner. The Restos are often much better for dinner, but if the seem neexul (Wolof fornot delicious), egg sandwiches are sold at every buvette and always a delicious backup plan.
8. Do something to pass the time until dinner. I do a lot of napping, a lot of imagination apartment hunting on the internet, a lot of reading, and a LOT of sudoku.
9. Go to dinner.
10. Go to a friend's room for tea or make tea in my room (I finally learned how to make attaaya! It is really easy and I will do it for you all the time when I get back.). Considering the fact that half of the population of UGB wants to be my best friend, I am never wont for attaaya invitations. This is a great time passer because it takes at least an hour and a half, and often up to four hours!
11. Decide when I am going to breakfast the next day.
12. Go to bed.
Sometimes I go to a movie on Tuesday nights in town, sometimes I go visit my two friends in town, Youssou the Tailor and Tam-Tam the Artisan, and very occasionally I have Wolof class on Wednesday or Friday afternoons.
I just noticed that my day has twelve steps, reinforcing the suspicion that I have actually been in re-hab for the past five months.
But then sometimes other things happen! Like that one time I went to an Islamic tent revival at 2:00 to 6:00 in the morning. Or that time that I spent the day in the ghetto of Dakar with my friend who tried to convert me to this loopy sect of Islam where no one prays, they just sing and make money. Or when I went on a safari (no lions, just a lot of warthogs and these deer things that had really fat necks and little heads). Or when I went on a Catholic pilgrimage and slept in a tent with all of the Catholics in West Africa. Or that other time I slept outside on a basketball court because I went to this big music festival in a town that had no hotels. These are the things that I do, or, more acurately, the things that happen to me.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Study Abroad A Little More Than Quarterly Report:
Areas of expertise: Old timey phone snake, Sudoku, turning down marriage proposals, avoiding cow/donkey/horse/goat poop, the menu offerings of every restaurant in Saint Louis
Points of interest in development, still improving: French/Wolof language skills, navigating the campus, bargaining for things such as cab fares and market items, fine tuning my "research project," riding in camions/kaar-rapits, figuring out the schedule of classes offered
New projects: Learning djembe (read: African drumming), planning trips around West Africa that may or may not come to fruition (hopefully the former)
Projects still on the docket but not yet commenced: learning to make attaaya (delicious tea), learning to cook yaasa poulet (delicious chicken and rice and onion sauce dish), learning Pulaar, starting classes!?
Recent highlights: Singing Hilary Duff's "Come Clean" at the Journée d'Integration (beginning-of-the-semester get together) for the Information and Computer Science majors on campus at the behest of my friend the President of the Information and Computer Science majors -- reactions were enthusiastic and supportive; requests for an encore, while numerous and resounding, were not realized (they will just have to wait until my next campus appearance to hear my winning rendition of "My Heart Will Go On"). Completely random and practically unannounced concert by Daara J (really awesome and well known Senegalese rap group) on campus; finding out that I am randomly kind of good at African drumming! and hopefully going to get better with under the tutelage of my cooler than cool djembe teacher Fodé; uploading Last.fm onto the computer lab computer so I can supplement my reasearch/iPod with lots of new music!
Upcoming endeavors: Trip to Niokolokoba (read: Safari Park!), Kedougou (ancient village on the top of a mountain), and Bassari Country (site of cool traditional ceremonies with masks and dancing and stuff? I think); first day of classesssssss!, Spring Break in London with my favorite cousins slash securing a job for the summer; concert with the campus Catholic choir
Life may be moving slow, but it seems that -- despite my concern that I was wasting away in the heat and sand here -- I have in fact been doing things!
Areas of expertise: Old timey phone snake, Sudoku, turning down marriage proposals, avoiding cow/donkey/horse/goat poop, the menu offerings of every restaurant in Saint Louis
Points of interest in development, still improving: French/Wolof language skills, navigating the campus, bargaining for things such as cab fares and market items, fine tuning my "research project," riding in camions/kaar-rapits, figuring out the schedule of classes offered
New projects: Learning djembe (read: African drumming), planning trips around West Africa that may or may not come to fruition (hopefully the former)
Projects still on the docket but not yet commenced: learning to make attaaya (delicious tea), learning to cook yaasa poulet (delicious chicken and rice and onion sauce dish), learning Pulaar, starting classes!?
Recent highlights: Singing Hilary Duff's "Come Clean" at the Journée d'Integration (beginning-of-the-semester get together) for the Information and Computer Science majors on campus at the behest of my friend the President of the Information and Computer Science majors -- reactions were enthusiastic and supportive; requests for an encore, while numerous and resounding, were not realized (they will just have to wait until my next campus appearance to hear my winning rendition of "My Heart Will Go On"). Completely random and practically unannounced concert by Daara J (really awesome and well known Senegalese rap group) on campus; finding out that I am randomly kind of good at African drumming! and hopefully going to get better with under the tutelage of my cooler than cool djembe teacher Fodé; uploading Last.fm onto the computer lab computer so I can supplement my reasearch/iPod with lots of new music!
Upcoming endeavors: Trip to Niokolokoba (read: Safari Park!), Kedougou (ancient village on the top of a mountain), and Bassari Country (site of cool traditional ceremonies with masks and dancing and stuff? I think); first day of classesssssss!, Spring Break in London with my favorite cousins slash securing a job for the summer; concert with the campus Catholic choir
Life may be moving slow, but it seems that -- despite my concern that I was wasting away in the heat and sand here -- I have in fact been doing things!
Thursday, March 6, 2008
An afternoon worth remembering:
It was about 2:00 on Saturday afternoon and some friends and I (all tuubaabs, read: whiteys) were making our way across the north end of the island of Saint Louis -- not exactly a long trek, considering the city is four streets broad. We were walking along a cross street past a group of hut-like structures when a gaggle of women started waving to us. We waved back and continued on our way, but before we got far, we realized that the women had started to yell at us. They were saying yelling at us because we had rudely not greeted them properly; we had not shaken their hands. Friendly and good natured tuubaabs as we are, and dedicated to distance ourselves from the throng of French tourists roaming the streets, we stopped and went over to shake hands with our new friends. The women were tickled that we had actually stopped to talk to them, and even more so that we could fake our way through Wolof. Faatu, the clear matriarch of the bunch, commended our openness and our language skills and invited us to have lunch and tea with them. Who were we to refuse?
We followed Faatu into her house, from the outside a modest grass-hut-looking structure. Inside, we found cable TV, a DVD player, and a really fancy radio. Faatu turned the radio up and started blasting her favorite mbalax tunes and she and her friends gabbed and guffawed, and we sat there confused and amused. Women kept running out to get their friends to come and meet the tuubaabs who had come for lunch. With no men in sight, and considering the anomalous butch dress of several of the women, I thought somehow we had stumbled on some sort of weird lesbian commune in the middle of Saint Louis. Faatu, however, dashed my hopes of having an odd sociological experiment to study when she explained that they were all the wives of military men who lived together waiting for their husbands to return. After bringing us a huge plate of some kind of rice-and-sauce dish for lunch, the fun began.
While Aida Rose started to prepare attaaya, Senegalese tea that you drink from a shot glass that takes two hours to make (because you have to have three glasses; it is very rude to leave before all three are finished), Faatu mysteriously left the room. She returned a few minutes later with her dress tied up around her boobs, revealing a sexy slip and strings of beads around her waist. She began to dance in the middle of the small room, waving her jaayfondé (Wolof for big booty) in our faces with glee. The other women laughed hysterically, and we laughed hysterically, and Faatu laughed hysterically. In one hand she had a curious little clay pot, from which she extracted a long string of beads. She began to wave the beads around with her, and I asked her what they were for. Faatu briefly paused her ecstatic dance to explain that you keep these beads in the little clay jar with good-smelling spices and put them on when your husband comes home to seduce him in the bedroom. Launching back into her frenzy of footwork and ass-shaking, she made each of us smell her sex beads and confirm how seducing their odor was. The other women continued to laugh, and some began to join in the dancing. Everyone came into the middle to strut their stuff, which in mbalax world means complicated footwork to even more complex polyrhythmic beats as well as sweeping arm gestures and lots of pelvic thrusting. Despite the raucous nature of their dancing, each woman jumped in to dance, and then quickly receded in feigned embarassment.
Then it was our turn to dance. Faatu grabbed Julia, her turundoo (Wolof for name twin), and had her mimic some knee-wiggling moves. Our spectators shreiked with glee at her brave attempt. I was next, and they had me try something called the "sizo," which I can explain only as a combination of "tootsie-roll"-esque footwork and "backing-that-ass-up" while making some kind of doling-stuff-out gesture. It is not particularly easy, but my willingness to try was appreciated with an encore of applause and hysteric laughter. One by one the tuubaabs were made to dance, and we all looked like idiots but had a great time. When it was not our turn to dance, we enjoyed our three cups of attaaya, played with the many little children running around, and learned about the entire life histories of our new friends.
Our spontaneous and completely surreal dance party, unfortunately had to come to an end when we finished our third cup of attaaya two and a half hours after our ridiculous meeting. Parting was made only slightly awkward when, after having given us a long spiel about how they are devoted to the idea of Teranga and how foreigners must be made to feel welcome and we gave them all of our sunglasses as presents, they asked us for money. We politely declined but promised that we would come back and bring more presents next time. I'm sure that they will hold us to our promise, and I hope to go back and visit them soon.
It was about 2:00 on Saturday afternoon and some friends and I (all tuubaabs, read: whiteys) were making our way across the north end of the island of Saint Louis -- not exactly a long trek, considering the city is four streets broad. We were walking along a cross street past a group of hut-like structures when a gaggle of women started waving to us. We waved back and continued on our way, but before we got far, we realized that the women had started to yell at us. They were saying yelling at us because we had rudely not greeted them properly; we had not shaken their hands. Friendly and good natured tuubaabs as we are, and dedicated to distance ourselves from the throng of French tourists roaming the streets, we stopped and went over to shake hands with our new friends. The women were tickled that we had actually stopped to talk to them, and even more so that we could fake our way through Wolof. Faatu, the clear matriarch of the bunch, commended our openness and our language skills and invited us to have lunch and tea with them. Who were we to refuse?
We followed Faatu into her house, from the outside a modest grass-hut-looking structure. Inside, we found cable TV, a DVD player, and a really fancy radio. Faatu turned the radio up and started blasting her favorite mbalax tunes and she and her friends gabbed and guffawed, and we sat there confused and amused. Women kept running out to get their friends to come and meet the tuubaabs who had come for lunch. With no men in sight, and considering the anomalous butch dress of several of the women, I thought somehow we had stumbled on some sort of weird lesbian commune in the middle of Saint Louis. Faatu, however, dashed my hopes of having an odd sociological experiment to study when she explained that they were all the wives of military men who lived together waiting for their husbands to return. After bringing us a huge plate of some kind of rice-and-sauce dish for lunch, the fun began.
While Aida Rose started to prepare attaaya, Senegalese tea that you drink from a shot glass that takes two hours to make (because you have to have three glasses; it is very rude to leave before all three are finished), Faatu mysteriously left the room. She returned a few minutes later with her dress tied up around her boobs, revealing a sexy slip and strings of beads around her waist. She began to dance in the middle of the small room, waving her jaayfondé (Wolof for big booty) in our faces with glee. The other women laughed hysterically, and we laughed hysterically, and Faatu laughed hysterically. In one hand she had a curious little clay pot, from which she extracted a long string of beads. She began to wave the beads around with her, and I asked her what they were for. Faatu briefly paused her ecstatic dance to explain that you keep these beads in the little clay jar with good-smelling spices and put them on when your husband comes home to seduce him in the bedroom. Launching back into her frenzy of footwork and ass-shaking, she made each of us smell her sex beads and confirm how seducing their odor was. The other women continued to laugh, and some began to join in the dancing. Everyone came into the middle to strut their stuff, which in mbalax world means complicated footwork to even more complex polyrhythmic beats as well as sweeping arm gestures and lots of pelvic thrusting. Despite the raucous nature of their dancing, each woman jumped in to dance, and then quickly receded in feigned embarassment.
Then it was our turn to dance. Faatu grabbed Julia, her turundoo (Wolof for name twin), and had her mimic some knee-wiggling moves. Our spectators shreiked with glee at her brave attempt. I was next, and they had me try something called the "sizo," which I can explain only as a combination of "tootsie-roll"-esque footwork and "backing-that-ass-up" while making some kind of doling-stuff-out gesture. It is not particularly easy, but my willingness to try was appreciated with an encore of applause and hysteric laughter. One by one the tuubaabs were made to dance, and we all looked like idiots but had a great time. When it was not our turn to dance, we enjoyed our three cups of attaaya, played with the many little children running around, and learned about the entire life histories of our new friends.
Our spontaneous and completely surreal dance party, unfortunately had to come to an end when we finished our third cup of attaaya two and a half hours after our ridiculous meeting. Parting was made only slightly awkward when, after having given us a long spiel about how they are devoted to the idea of Teranga and how foreigners must be made to feel welcome and we gave them all of our sunglasses as presents, they asked us for money. We politely declined but promised that we would come back and bring more presents next time. I'm sure that they will hold us to our promise, and I hope to go back and visit them soon.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Gej naa la gis, blog! That's Wolof for, "long time no see." Naka tang bi? That's Wolof for "How about this heat!?" and it is now how everyone greets each other. BECAUSE IT IS SO HOT. LIKE LIVING IN A CONVECTION OVEN. And it is only February. Sources say that May is positively volcanic. Back-of-the-leg-sweat has become a very significant problem. Yesterday, there was also no water. I generally don't have water in my room between 8am and 10pm because I live on the second floor, but yesterday there was no water anywhere on campus. Like not even water that you could buy. Considering the blazing, 100° heat, I am impressed that I lived to tell the tale.
But what of the happy, exciting things that have developped over the weeks since I last wrote? Well, I am now entrenched in extracurriculars, and the prospect of scheduled meetings and rehearsals fills me with unimaginable joy. Especially considering the fact that my classes don't start until mid-March. I have joined the Catholic choir, the members of which are super nice and very happy to have me join them. In fact, they were so happy to have me that they gave me a solo to perform at this special thing they were going to! Unfortunately, I was so excited at this opportunity I did not stop to ask what the special thing was or where it might be. The next day I found myself on a bus heading for the bush and realized about an hour later that I had signed myself up for an all-day church retreat. Oops! Ten hours later, after much Jesus, juice, drumming, and rejoicing, I returned home with the following life lessons in my pocket: Always ask clarifying questions; when you don't understand what people are saying, don't just say yes.
I have also joined a theater group on campus. At our first meeting they cast me very appropriately as the aging Senegalese actress Awa who is ostracized by her friends and family when she tells them she has AIDS. Probably the part I was born to play. The people involved are really nice, except there is this one guy who apparently thinks that I have no reading comprehension skills because at every rehearsal he explains how the scene goes despite the fact that I have already demonstrated that I have it memorized. It gets really annoying. It is also annoying when he asks me to marry him and take him to New York. Hahaha, I say "Ndank ndank mooy japp golo ci naay!" Translation: slowly, slowly you catch the monkey in the brush; read: back off buddy.
Coming up! Saint Louisiane nightlife: can it still be called nightlife when it's 6 in the morning?
But what of the happy, exciting things that have developped over the weeks since I last wrote? Well, I am now entrenched in extracurriculars, and the prospect of scheduled meetings and rehearsals fills me with unimaginable joy. Especially considering the fact that my classes don't start until mid-March. I have joined the Catholic choir, the members of which are super nice and very happy to have me join them. In fact, they were so happy to have me that they gave me a solo to perform at this special thing they were going to! Unfortunately, I was so excited at this opportunity I did not stop to ask what the special thing was or where it might be. The next day I found myself on a bus heading for the bush and realized about an hour later that I had signed myself up for an all-day church retreat. Oops! Ten hours later, after much Jesus, juice, drumming, and rejoicing, I returned home with the following life lessons in my pocket: Always ask clarifying questions; when you don't understand what people are saying, don't just say yes.
I have also joined a theater group on campus. At our first meeting they cast me very appropriately as the aging Senegalese actress Awa who is ostracized by her friends and family when she tells them she has AIDS. Probably the part I was born to play. The people involved are really nice, except there is this one guy who apparently thinks that I have no reading comprehension skills because at every rehearsal he explains how the scene goes despite the fact that I have already demonstrated that I have it memorized. It gets really annoying. It is also annoying when he asks me to marry him and take him to New York. Hahaha, I say "Ndank ndank mooy japp golo ci naay!" Translation: slowly, slowly you catch the monkey in the brush; read: back off buddy.
Coming up! Saint Louisiane nightlife: can it still be called nightlife when it's 6 in the morning?
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Happy one month anniversary of me being in Senegal! I have VERY little to do here in Saint Louis, and I'm beginning to feel the old ennui. Probably because I have no real classes yet, no extracurricular activities, no travel plans, not that many friends, and just generally not a lot of direction right now. I am looking to join the choir here, and I've heard tell that there is a theater group looking for participants, so hopefully things will pick up soon. Maybe I will be the first musical theater ambassador to Senegal.
In the mean time! I will give you a sense of what it is like here at the university and in the city;
PROFILE: UNIVERSITE GASTON BERGER
LOCATION: SAINT LOUIS, SENEGAL
CLIMATE: Morning-Pleasantly cool with a gentle breeze; Afternoon-Hot; Late Afternoon- HOT AS ALL GET OUT; Evening-Pleasantly cool with a gentle breeze.
FEATURES OF GEOGRAPHICAL NOTE: The Senegal River, Some trees but not very many, lots and lots and lots of sand.
FAUNA: So many goats, donkeys, cows, and cats that hang around everywhere. Goats are the funniest slash most awesome animals ever to exist. They are so dumb and eat so many things that are inedible but they are also the country's only form of large scale waste management. ANECDOTE: The other day I was running and there was a cow in my path and I kept my course and the cow ran away from me! How crazy is that?
ARCHITECTURE: Strangely futuristic, makes me feel like I go to the University of Mars which is fun and exciting (apparently it is supposed to look like Mecca rising out of the desert but really it looks like the 1965 version of UofMars); residences are low, trapezoidal buildings of sandy colored stucco arranged in little pods called Villages; classrooms are all in big square buildings on a separate part of campus that seems to be a Mobius strip because regardless of how I try to get to or from there I get lost or end up somewhere I wasn't suspecting; there is a giant, rhombus-inspired tower that houses who knows what kind of wonders inside its walls.
STUDENT BODY: Mostly West African, a handful of Americans, three Canadians, two Austrians; mostly muslim, those who aren't muslim are probably Catholic; extremely attractive and well-dressed, like I feel completely inadequate every time I leave my room; popular majors are informatique (computer science), geography (not just ready maps, agronomy and agro-business, population and migration stuff, environmental studies and more!), and of course English and Anglophone Studies. ANECDOTE: Yesterday was Mardi Gras and the Catholic contingent on campus organized what appears to be an annual pageant of what they call "deguisements." What it actually means is that everyone cross dresses and puts on little skits for student judges who pick the best cross dressers and the best skits and give out prizes. I was witness to the Muslim celebration of Tamxarit in Dakar, which was pretty much the same thing except instead of doing skits, the cross-dressers make a lot of noise and "steal" food that people leave out for them. Odd, or maybe not odd, that such a gender-normative culture has such a penchant for cross-dressing.
TRANSPORTATION: Walking; dubiously beat up taxis; Kaar-rapides (which I amstilltoo timid to take); carts drawn by horses
CITY LIFE: Beautiful but in a really sad way-all the buildings are brightly colored, 18th century French colonial relics that are now either crumbling or being rebuilt because the city was recently made a UNESCO World Heritage Site; the bridge going from the mainland to the city is called Pont Faidherbe, named after the French governor who institutionalized and mobilized the French colonial project which is kind of weird (but not as weird as the fact that the most beautiful/expensive hotel in the city is a former slave house); crawling with sort of creepy and really obvious French and otherwise European tourists; really nice French Cultural Center paid for by the French government that has a library and hosts assorted cultural events like movies and concerts and book readings; many many nightclubs and many delicious restaurants; a cool but crazy market place where you can buy literally anything.
That's all for now, next up: Attaya! the three hour long cup of tea you wish you could have four times a day
LOCATION: SAINT LOUIS, SENEGAL
CLIMATE: Morning-Pleasantly cool with a gentle breeze; Afternoon-Hot; Late Afternoon- HOT AS ALL GET OUT; Evening-Pleasantly cool with a gentle breeze.
FEATURES OF GEOGRAPHICAL NOTE: The Senegal River, Some trees but not very many, lots and lots and lots of sand.
FAUNA: So many goats, donkeys, cows, and cats that hang around everywhere. Goats are the funniest slash most awesome animals ever to exist. They are so dumb and eat so many things that are inedible but they are also the country's only form of large scale waste management. ANECDOTE: The other day I was running and there was a cow in my path and I kept my course and the cow ran away from me! How crazy is that?
ARCHITECTURE: Strangely futuristic, makes me feel like I go to the University of Mars which is fun and exciting (apparently it is supposed to look like Mecca rising out of the desert but really it looks like the 1965 version of UofMars); residences are low, trapezoidal buildings of sandy colored stucco arranged in little pods called Villages; classrooms are all in big square buildings on a separate part of campus that seems to be a Mobius strip because regardless of how I try to get to or from there I get lost or end up somewhere I wasn't suspecting; there is a giant, rhombus-inspired tower that houses who knows what kind of wonders inside its walls.
STUDENT BODY: Mostly West African, a handful of Americans, three Canadians, two Austrians; mostly muslim, those who aren't muslim are probably Catholic; extremely attractive and well-dressed, like I feel completely inadequate every time I leave my room; popular majors are informatique (computer science), geography (not just ready maps, agronomy and agro-business, population and migration stuff, environmental studies and more!), and of course English and Anglophone Studies. ANECDOTE: Yesterday was Mardi Gras and the Catholic contingent on campus organized what appears to be an annual pageant of what they call "deguisements." What it actually means is that everyone cross dresses and puts on little skits for student judges who pick the best cross dressers and the best skits and give out prizes. I was witness to the Muslim celebration of Tamxarit in Dakar, which was pretty much the same thing except instead of doing skits, the cross-dressers make a lot of noise and "steal" food that people leave out for them. Odd, or maybe not odd, that such a gender-normative culture has such a penchant for cross-dressing.
TRANSPORTATION: Walking; dubiously beat up taxis; Kaar-rapides (which I amstilltoo timid to take); carts drawn by horses
CITY LIFE: Beautiful but in a really sad way-all the buildings are brightly colored, 18th century French colonial relics that are now either crumbling or being rebuilt because the city was recently made a UNESCO World Heritage Site; the bridge going from the mainland to the city is called Pont Faidherbe, named after the French governor who institutionalized and mobilized the French colonial project which is kind of weird (but not as weird as the fact that the most beautiful/expensive hotel in the city is a former slave house); crawling with sort of creepy and really obvious French and otherwise European tourists; really nice French Cultural Center paid for by the French government that has a library and hosts assorted cultural events like movies and concerts and book readings; many many nightclubs and many delicious restaurants; a cool but crazy market place where you can buy literally anything.
That's all for now, next up: Attaya! the three hour long cup of tea you wish you could have four times a day
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Whew, it's been a hectic week. I'm finally at Université Gaston Berger, where I'll be spending the next FIVE MONTHS. Cheese-it thrice that's a long time. I am slowly but surely getting myself acclimated, which proves to be easier here than it was in Dakar. Firstly, the people (men) are much more friendly and less aggressive. Girls seem to be harder to make friends with than guys, but that's neither here nor there. Secondly, it is nice to have things to talk about beyond, "Hey, you're a tubaab walking in the same direction as I am let's be friends!" I've already had some very interesting conversations with very interesting and smart people and I look forward to forming friendships in the months to come.
BUT! I had a couple super-crazy-awesome-worth-recounting adventures in Dakar that I am about to immortalize in narrative form:
Kadjinole Station
So, it was a Monday night and my compatriots and I were desperately in need of some cultural activity not organized by the Baobab Center to break up the monotony of Wolof class morning, noon, and night. We had found an activity listed in the ubiquitous Lonely Planet guidebook that looked fun and relaxing: a restaurant/bar/film viewing site where if you buy food or drink you get to see the movie for free. The guide assured us that it was a must-do, so we hopped in a taxi and made our way down to Kadjinole Station.
The entrance was marked by a London tube-stop looking sign bearing the name of the establishment over a small, slightly dubious-looking door. We entered into a stairwell, with no sign of a restaurant or movie theater in sight. Adventurous souls as we are, we mounted the anonymous stairwell. At the top of the stairwell, we found an empty courtyard, but there were tables and chairs so we figured we might be on the right track. Through the courtyard we went and found what looked like a very large, luxurious living room. There were big comfy couches in brocade and plush fabrics around low tables with candles. And, lo and behold, other people! Well, one other person. We inquired as to whether this was indeed the Kadjinole station where we could eat, drink, and watch movies, and our new acquaintance assured us that we had indeed reached our destination. He invited us to sit on a couple of the couches and rushed off to find the only waitress.
By this point it was about 8:15 and we were all famished (people don't seem to be too into snacking here, which is a travesty, and we had missed our daily trip to the MyShop on the corner to buy Fanta and chocolate). The waitress arrived and we told her we would like to eat dinner, and she promptly left to go find out what the kitchen was making. I did not think that this boded well for our eating prospects and I resigned myself to expect glorified bar food. She returned, told us our options, we ordered, and she left. We had since realized that it was only just past 8 on a monday night, which probably explained why we were the only patrons of such a swanky joint. Moments later, our host friend returned and asked us if we wanted to start the movie. He said that since we were the only people there, it was entirely up to us. He was very nice and asked us how the sound levels were and started the movie. He even put on the English subtitles just for us!
The movie was an odd film about a French man who went to Benin to do business or something and ended up getting all his money and passport stolen or burned and had to depend on the kindness of a burly but warm-hearted Beninese boxer slash street vendor who just wanted to get to Ouagadougou to see his long lost father and they went on a journey of a lifetime and braved all sorts of dangers and ended up happy in the end. It was very French bourgeois in its humor and made us all slightly uncomfortable. But, about half way through the movie, we still hadn't gotten our food and I was beginning to get kind of cranky, when the waitress came back. Remember how I had fairly low expectations for the food I would be served? Boy was I mistaken. We were brought platters loaded with the most beautiful seafood and salad and french fries! on placemats the size of small bicycle tires. And delicious bruschetta to share! Honestly, this was the best meal I have had in years probably. I had ordered the brochette fruit de mer, and I successfully finished off three enormous skewers of delicious tender fish and onions, two skewers of calamari, an enormous crawfish, and most of the bruschetta. There was no rice or mysterious gooey sauce in my life that night and I was a very happy camper.
As we left, we thanked the host generously. He invited us to come back during the weekend at a more reasonable party hour (which means like, 2am here) to partake in their "International Dance Club Night." We told him we would try and that we would definitely tell our friends about this little jewel.
Iles de la Madeleine
We had reached our last day in Dakar, and we really wanted to do something fun, cultural, and relaxing at the same time. After consulting our trusty Lonely Planet, we decided to make the trek to the Iles de la Madeleine. According to our guide, these islands are nature reserves and no one lives there and, most importantly, there are no vendors there. Having had our fill of tourist-y beaches where every five minutes you get offered the same necklace or some maraca-type instrument or something, this sounded like a delightful respite. We set out for the beach bright and early, as we had to find some sort of national park ranger to take us out to the island.
We decided to walk to the beach, which we had already tried to do once with no success, but here we were two-and-a-half-weeks-wiser and more confident. The fact that every Senegalese person we knew told us to take a taxi instead did not phase us. So, we walked to the university, around which we were told we would find the right beach. After walking for a good half hour and having been pointed in three wrong directions by three different helpful but not really helpful people, we conceded and got in a taxi. Which promptly took us to yet another wrong place. Where we received incorrect directions from another slew of people. We finally found our way to a dinky shack on the tiniest stretch of beach that had a bunch of tubaabs sitting outside, which indicated that we had reached our destination. We went in and met the park ranger, who was very friendly but kind of shady about telling us how much it would cost, chartered our boat, and went to buy snacks.
A little boat took us out to one of the two Iles de la Madeleine, l'Ile du Serpent. It was a desert-looking mound in the middle of the ocean, with a cove for swimming, a million cormorants flying around, super cool volcanic rock formations, and weird dwarf baobabs that had trunks that were like ten feet wide but only like ten feet tall. We went swimming in the cove, got a tour of the island where we saw great views of Dakar, the fishermen around the island, a rare bird that only lives on l'Ile du Serpent called a phaeton or something, the other of the Iles de la Madeleine called Ile de Lougnes, and so much more!
The cove was divine for swimming, but treacherously rocky. I sustained several minor injuries, but nothing too serious was injured beyond my pride. I attribute my copious slippage to an injury to my left foot sustained early on in the trip that, compounded by the algaeic furriness of the rocks, greatly diminished my usual poise and balance. That's a big fat lie, I fall down all the time and I don't know why I suddenly expected to have the balance of a tight-rope walker the way I was jumping around those rocks, but alas, the still visible bruises on my foot, hand, and arms will serve to remind me to be more careful next time. Despite my gravitational mishaps, it was a beautiful day, and probably one of my favorite things I have done so far.
The Wedding
The night before I left for Saint Louis, this past Saturday, there was a wedding at the house across the street from me. What I didn't realize until I came home from my day at Iles de la Madeleine sunburnt, bruised, and needing a nap is that when there is a wedding at the house across the street from you, there is a wedding at your house, your neighbor's house, and all the other houses within a three block radius as well. I returned to my house d'accueil to find a huge tent blocking my street and maybe a hundred ladies in the most beautiful traditional Senegalese dresses. They were brightly colored booboos (I think that's what they are called) that all looked hand made, and I felt like a huge slob in my jeans and beach-y shirt. My house mother found me and urged me to change into something more appropriate as quickly as possible. I showered, changed and prepared myself to brave the madness that was the street outside my house.
As soon as I walked out the door, I was scooped up by a swarm of young girls who all had names that sounded like variations on Mami who wanted nothing more than to play with my hair and shoot little toy cannon things at me. After being grilled about my marital status, I decided to see if I could sneak away from my gaggle of new friends. I spotted some familiar tubaabs on the other side of the street and went over to seek solidarity in our outsiderness. This proved more difficult than I expected, because the street was packed with the beautifully robed ladies and gentlemen who had all settled into plastic lawn chairs to listen to drummers and griots singing and playing. I forded the river of gold and purple fabric and managed to catch up with some equally overwhelmed tubaabs. Not feeling brave enough to go to the reception that was apparently to ensue, I snuck away with my new housemate and her friend to grab some dinner.
I decided that it would be safe to discreetly make my way back home around 11, thinking that the party in front of my house would have disbanded by then, but I was very much mistaken. I came back to find the older members of the party wailing into a megaphone in Wolof. Exhausted and desperately needing to pack, I pushed my way to my room and sort of passed out on my bed. I wanted nothing more than to sleep, but the ecstatic shouting into the megaphone went on until at least four in the morning. I heard my house mom and grandmother coming in around five. These Senegalese muslims really know how to party.
BUT! I had a couple super-crazy-awesome-worth-recounting adventures in Dakar that I am about to immortalize in narrative form:
Kadjinole Station
So, it was a Monday night and my compatriots and I were desperately in need of some cultural activity not organized by the Baobab Center to break up the monotony of Wolof class morning, noon, and night. We had found an activity listed in the ubiquitous Lonely Planet guidebook that looked fun and relaxing: a restaurant/bar/film viewing site where if you buy food or drink you get to see the movie for free. The guide assured us that it was a must-do, so we hopped in a taxi and made our way down to Kadjinole Station.
The entrance was marked by a London tube-stop looking sign bearing the name of the establishment over a small, slightly dubious-looking door. We entered into a stairwell, with no sign of a restaurant or movie theater in sight. Adventurous souls as we are, we mounted the anonymous stairwell. At the top of the stairwell, we found an empty courtyard, but there were tables and chairs so we figured we might be on the right track. Through the courtyard we went and found what looked like a very large, luxurious living room. There were big comfy couches in brocade and plush fabrics around low tables with candles. And, lo and behold, other people! Well, one other person. We inquired as to whether this was indeed the Kadjinole station where we could eat, drink, and watch movies, and our new acquaintance assured us that we had indeed reached our destination. He invited us to sit on a couple of the couches and rushed off to find the only waitress.
By this point it was about 8:15 and we were all famished (people don't seem to be too into snacking here, which is a travesty, and we had missed our daily trip to the MyShop on the corner to buy Fanta and chocolate). The waitress arrived and we told her we would like to eat dinner, and she promptly left to go find out what the kitchen was making. I did not think that this boded well for our eating prospects and I resigned myself to expect glorified bar food. She returned, told us our options, we ordered, and she left. We had since realized that it was only just past 8 on a monday night, which probably explained why we were the only patrons of such a swanky joint. Moments later, our host friend returned and asked us if we wanted to start the movie. He said that since we were the only people there, it was entirely up to us. He was very nice and asked us how the sound levels were and started the movie. He even put on the English subtitles just for us!
The movie was an odd film about a French man who went to Benin to do business or something and ended up getting all his money and passport stolen or burned and had to depend on the kindness of a burly but warm-hearted Beninese boxer slash street vendor who just wanted to get to Ouagadougou to see his long lost father and they went on a journey of a lifetime and braved all sorts of dangers and ended up happy in the end. It was very French bourgeois in its humor and made us all slightly uncomfortable. But, about half way through the movie, we still hadn't gotten our food and I was beginning to get kind of cranky, when the waitress came back. Remember how I had fairly low expectations for the food I would be served? Boy was I mistaken. We were brought platters loaded with the most beautiful seafood and salad and french fries! on placemats the size of small bicycle tires. And delicious bruschetta to share! Honestly, this was the best meal I have had in years probably. I had ordered the brochette fruit de mer, and I successfully finished off three enormous skewers of delicious tender fish and onions, two skewers of calamari, an enormous crawfish, and most of the bruschetta. There was no rice or mysterious gooey sauce in my life that night and I was a very happy camper.
As we left, we thanked the host generously. He invited us to come back during the weekend at a more reasonable party hour (which means like, 2am here) to partake in their "International Dance Club Night." We told him we would try and that we would definitely tell our friends about this little jewel.
Iles de la Madeleine
We had reached our last day in Dakar, and we really wanted to do something fun, cultural, and relaxing at the same time. After consulting our trusty Lonely Planet, we decided to make the trek to the Iles de la Madeleine. According to our guide, these islands are nature reserves and no one lives there and, most importantly, there are no vendors there. Having had our fill of tourist-y beaches where every five minutes you get offered the same necklace or some maraca-type instrument or something, this sounded like a delightful respite. We set out for the beach bright and early, as we had to find some sort of national park ranger to take us out to the island.
We decided to walk to the beach, which we had already tried to do once with no success, but here we were two-and-a-half-weeks-wiser and more confident. The fact that every Senegalese person we knew told us to take a taxi instead did not phase us. So, we walked to the university, around which we were told we would find the right beach. After walking for a good half hour and having been pointed in three wrong directions by three different helpful but not really helpful people, we conceded and got in a taxi. Which promptly took us to yet another wrong place. Where we received incorrect directions from another slew of people. We finally found our way to a dinky shack on the tiniest stretch of beach that had a bunch of tubaabs sitting outside, which indicated that we had reached our destination. We went in and met the park ranger, who was very friendly but kind of shady about telling us how much it would cost, chartered our boat, and went to buy snacks.
A little boat took us out to one of the two Iles de la Madeleine, l'Ile du Serpent. It was a desert-looking mound in the middle of the ocean, with a cove for swimming, a million cormorants flying around, super cool volcanic rock formations, and weird dwarf baobabs that had trunks that were like ten feet wide but only like ten feet tall. We went swimming in the cove, got a tour of the island where we saw great views of Dakar, the fishermen around the island, a rare bird that only lives on l'Ile du Serpent called a phaeton or something, the other of the Iles de la Madeleine called Ile de Lougnes, and so much more!
The cove was divine for swimming, but treacherously rocky. I sustained several minor injuries, but nothing too serious was injured beyond my pride. I attribute my copious slippage to an injury to my left foot sustained early on in the trip that, compounded by the algaeic furriness of the rocks, greatly diminished my usual poise and balance. That's a big fat lie, I fall down all the time and I don't know why I suddenly expected to have the balance of a tight-rope walker the way I was jumping around those rocks, but alas, the still visible bruises on my foot, hand, and arms will serve to remind me to be more careful next time. Despite my gravitational mishaps, it was a beautiful day, and probably one of my favorite things I have done so far.
The Wedding
The night before I left for Saint Louis, this past Saturday, there was a wedding at the house across the street from me. What I didn't realize until I came home from my day at Iles de la Madeleine sunburnt, bruised, and needing a nap is that when there is a wedding at the house across the street from you, there is a wedding at your house, your neighbor's house, and all the other houses within a three block radius as well. I returned to my house d'accueil to find a huge tent blocking my street and maybe a hundred ladies in the most beautiful traditional Senegalese dresses. They were brightly colored booboos (I think that's what they are called) that all looked hand made, and I felt like a huge slob in my jeans and beach-y shirt. My house mother found me and urged me to change into something more appropriate as quickly as possible. I showered, changed and prepared myself to brave the madness that was the street outside my house.
As soon as I walked out the door, I was scooped up by a swarm of young girls who all had names that sounded like variations on Mami who wanted nothing more than to play with my hair and shoot little toy cannon things at me. After being grilled about my marital status, I decided to see if I could sneak away from my gaggle of new friends. I spotted some familiar tubaabs on the other side of the street and went over to seek solidarity in our outsiderness. This proved more difficult than I expected, because the street was packed with the beautifully robed ladies and gentlemen who had all settled into plastic lawn chairs to listen to drummers and griots singing and playing. I forded the river of gold and purple fabric and managed to catch up with some equally overwhelmed tubaabs. Not feeling brave enough to go to the reception that was apparently to ensue, I snuck away with my new housemate and her friend to grab some dinner.
I decided that it would be safe to discreetly make my way back home around 11, thinking that the party in front of my house would have disbanded by then, but I was very much mistaken. I came back to find the older members of the party wailing into a megaphone in Wolof. Exhausted and desperately needing to pack, I pushed my way to my room and sort of passed out on my bed. I wanted nothing more than to sleep, but the ecstatic shouting into the megaphone went on until at least four in the morning. I heard my house mom and grandmother coming in around five. These Senegalese muslims really know how to party.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Ugh. Africa Poops in a squat toilet. Not the most exciting way to spend a Saturday night. And I had been so proud to have avoided the dreaded Africa Poops thus far; too proud, it seems. Alas, such is the fate of the American in Africa.
Speaking of being an American in Africa; no, I don't want your phone number or to give you mine guy standing next to me at the supermarket; no, I don't want to go to your house for dinner at midnight guy at the next to empty bar; no, I don't want you to show me the sights of Dakar by night guy walking in the same direction as me; no, I don't want to be your girlfriend guy I asked for directions; no, I don't want to "share cultures" with you guy who has memorized when I go to and from school; no, I don't care if you love me I don't want to be your third wife hired photographer of my friend's sister's baptism. For a people that seems to hold their own women in such high regard and treat with such respect, it is remarkable how differently American women are treated. It's not that people are being rude by making lewd gestures or comments, or even trying to touch me. What is surprising is how oppresive it feels to be told "Je t'aime" at least three times a day by strangers in passing. As if every Tubaab wants for nothing but a Senegalese husband/boyfriend and we will jump at the first chance to have one. When I tell people who inquire as to how to "get to know be better" that I will be here for a week longer, I invariably get a response along the lines of "Hey, a lot can happen in a week." What are they expecting? Do they want to sleep with me? Do they want to marry me? Do they want to help them get a visa? All of the above? All of these seem equally possible considering the conversations I have had.
And here is where it gets touchy. I certainly don't want to be uncurious about the culture or impolite, and the vast majority of people here are so overwhelmingly friendly that is entirely possible that a person initiating a conversation wants nothing more than to converse. It is almoist impossible to forsee when and if a conversation will shift from "Let's teach this Tubaab some Wolof" to "Let's see if I can get this Tubaab to go home with me." Don't they know I just want to make friends with people and learn about stuff not in a sexual way(insert sad and slightly frustrated face)? Coming soon: the challenges of negotiating a sense of identity and relations with no cultural reference points!
Speaking of being an American in Africa; no, I don't want your phone number or to give you mine guy standing next to me at the supermarket; no, I don't want to go to your house for dinner at midnight guy at the next to empty bar; no, I don't want you to show me the sights of Dakar by night guy walking in the same direction as me; no, I don't want to be your girlfriend guy I asked for directions; no, I don't want to "share cultures" with you guy who has memorized when I go to and from school; no, I don't care if you love me I don't want to be your third wife hired photographer of my friend's sister's baptism. For a people that seems to hold their own women in such high regard and treat with such respect, it is remarkable how differently American women are treated. It's not that people are being rude by making lewd gestures or comments, or even trying to touch me. What is surprising is how oppresive it feels to be told "Je t'aime" at least three times a day by strangers in passing. As if every Tubaab wants for nothing but a Senegalese husband/boyfriend and we will jump at the first chance to have one. When I tell people who inquire as to how to "get to know be better" that I will be here for a week longer, I invariably get a response along the lines of "Hey, a lot can happen in a week." What are they expecting? Do they want to sleep with me? Do they want to marry me? Do they want to help them get a visa? All of the above? All of these seem equally possible considering the conversations I have had.
And here is where it gets touchy. I certainly don't want to be uncurious about the culture or impolite, and the vast majority of people here are so overwhelmingly friendly that is entirely possible that a person initiating a conversation wants nothing more than to converse. It is almoist impossible to forsee when and if a conversation will shift from "Let's teach this Tubaab some Wolof" to "Let's see if I can get this Tubaab to go home with me." Don't they know I just want to make friends with people and learn about stuff not in a sexual way(insert sad and slightly frustrated face)? Coming soon: the challenges of negotiating a sense of identity and relations with no cultural reference points!
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