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.

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!

I have not been sleeping well. Either I can't get to sleep for hours or I wake up throughout the night, or both. It could be the fact that my body is not accustomed to getting up and going to bed at decent and regular hours. It could be that I have not yet gotten used to the persistent braying of goats and the music/noise coming from the nearby mosque seemingly all night and all morning long.
It could also be due to the fact that I am in a constant state of slight discomfort. Never before have I been uncomfortable in so many ways at once. I'm not yet really comfortable speaking French, I'm certainly not comfortable speaking Wolof. Already that eliminates the facet of my life in which I am usually most comfortable, ie my ability to use language effectively and affectively. I live in an unfamiliar house with an unfamiliar family with unfamiliar customs. Despite my efforts, I am still not sure who is supposed to eat what meal where, when you use cutlery (which isn't often), if I am supposed to go and seek out every member of the household and announce my comings and goings or if I should just come and go, what the most effective way to use a squat toilet is. I can't figure out how to lie in my bed without it dislodging the bedframe and I can't figure out how to completely unlock my bedroom door. I feel socially awkward literally ALL THE TIME. In the house I feel awkward when everyone is chattering nimbly in Wolof and I ask a question or say something in my clunky French or even clunkier Wolof. Among my peers, both American and Senegalese, I feel equally awkward. I usually feel pretty socially awkward, but around the people who already know and love me, it seems to be part of my charm? But with people who I have known for nary two weeks yet, I am just weird. I overshare, make jokes that no one thinks are funny, tell stories that go nowhere and demonstrate nothing, and generally talk WAY too much. In five days of Wolof classes I have had as many professors of Wolof, each with a radically different accent/personality/pedagogical method. I don't know my way around, know how to use public transportation, feel comfortable negotiating with taxi drivers, know where there are things to do. Basically, my life is in a constant state of ignorant flux.
Yes, this litany of would might lead you to believe that I am unhappy, but such is not the case. I am happy as a clam in fact (oh to be able to use idiomatic expressions!). My choice of location and program for my study abroad adventure was predicated on the knowledge that I would be forced to live outside of my comfort zone. This is supposed to be challenging and I expected nothing less than to be ferociously uncomfortable. I take solace in my iPod and my favorite sweatshirt and remind myself what a rewarding experience this is and embrace the hilarious awkwardness of my existence.

It is funny to me that the culture/language here seems to be greatly focused on making peole feel comfortable and welcome, but the very elements of the culture/language that are so comforting to the indigenous seem to be precisely what put the uninitated ill at ease. My point is best illustrated by a brief lesson in Wolof grammar.
Wolof is a language permeated with flexible, transmutable, and inconsistent relations. There are many ways to say the same thing, but each separate grammatical construction puts emphasis on a different part of the phrase. Take the sentence, "I have two brothers." There is a sentence structure that says simply that, there is a separate structure to imply "I have two brothers;" another to imply "I have two brothers;" and yet another to indicate that "I have two brothers;" and even one to say "I have two brothers." I know, right? There are also different grammatic elements to indicate that somone is RIGHT here, right here, here, there, over there, way over there, and WAY over there. The actual designation of these spatial relationships are at the discretion of the speaker and vary from person to person.
I hope this little grammar lesson gives a little insight into hoz much broader seemingly objective or quantitative designations are here. The conception of proximity, the concept of duration, quantity, etc. are infinitely variable. One thing that has a markedly different, and across the board, broader meaning is "family." Actual households consist of anywhere from 6 or 7 people at the very least, to 14 or 15. Even that might be a conservative estimate. This includes children, brothers, uncles, aunts, friends of the family, ex-brothers in law, American students.

Ka muuññ, muuñ

It's hard to understand how far away I am from home, physically and metaphorically. I was thoroughly engaged throughout the flight getting to know my traveling companions, so I barely had time to think about or process the physical space between "here" and "there." Then, we were so tired after disembarking that the drive from the airport into the city seems surreal. It is as if I went to sleep and woke up and the world around me had changed, instead of me actively changing my surroundings.

The only time I felt anything besides adrenaline-fueled camraderie was when the three of us decided it would probably be a good idea if we caught some zzz's on our way to Casa. In my half-slumber, I suddenly felt pangs of acute claustrophobia. This is not uncommon for me on planes, but this time it felt different. It wasn't so much the plane itself that made me feel trapped, but the knowledge that now, halfway to Senegal, there was no turning back. No turning back the plane, no going back to school, no returning to something comfortable. I am a girl who likes to keep her options open and suddenly I understood that going this far abroad means that I have committed myself to something very big for at least the next six months. The geographic agency that I am used to, whether it be subway or NJTransit or even knowing my way around my city, and the communicative liberty I depend on, both in terms of my more than porficient grasp on the English language and the comfort of cellphones and Gchat, are long gone. These aren't exactly profound statements, but there was no way for me to really conceptualize this committment to disconnection and reconnection.

Now that I am here, I find the disconnect at times liberating and at times terrifying. Thankfully, the Senegalese people live by the philosophy of Teranga, which encompasses obligatory and unconditional hospitality in every aspect of life, so people are quite friendly to say the least. Never have I experienced such an extraordinarily generous group of people in my entire life It is as if everyone who sees us wants to welcome us to their country and make sure that we are happy and comfortable. Any time a group of Toubabs (translates literally to strangers, but the general slang for white people) passes, people greet us with "Asalaa malekum," and now that we can answer back, our interlocutors smile proudly and test our Wolof with the follow-up, "Nanga def?" I haven't learned enough to go much further than that, but people seem to know our syllabus and give us the prompts in our workbooks.

I have since my last post moved in with my host family, which is lovely. It is definitely challenging, but as the Wolof say, "ka muññ, muuñ," or "he who endures will smile." So far, the one friend I have made in my family is Mamdia. She is three and speaks about as much French as I do Wolof. I have learned from her kai, which means come, and kii, which means her, and mostly deedeet! which means no. I am very often wrong during her favorite game of take-all-the-toys-out-of-the-bag-and-then-put-them-back-in-again. I hope to make more friends in my family, but it has been a slow process. One thing I have learned is that things take time here. So, babeneen yoon!

Une suite des gentilhommes

My journey began on Saturday evening when I met two of the three other people on my program for the first time during our seen hour flight to Casablanca. Thankfully, we really hit it off and have many similar interests. Also thankfully, my compatriot Julia had a massive guideook for all of Africa, so we planned ourselves an excursion during our eleven hour layover in Casablanca.

Our experience trying to find the train to get from the airport to the city pretty much summed up our experience in Casa (as it is known to the locals): we spent a good long while wandering around looking hopelessly out of place unsure of what the train line was or where exactly we were supposed to take it, until we serendipitously stumbled upon a great big sign flashing "WELCOME TO THE TRAIN" in French, English, and Arabic.

The train dropped us off near the city center, and we were approached by a swarm of petit taxi rouges upon exiting the station. Not wanting to be duped, and unsure of our abilities to barter, we decided that we could walk to our first destination, the big mosque. Its name escapes me, but it is the third largest mosque in the world (but not the oldest; it was built starting in 1987, we are the same age!). We left the train station and tried to find ourselves on the world's tiniest map, which probably made us look like the most obvious tourists of all time. We looked undeniably lost when a taxi driver walked up to us. He evaded the task of showing us where we were on the map by promising to take us directly to the mosque for 50 dirham, which is about 4 dollars. That seemed like a fair price, so we agreed to let him take us. En route, he tried to sell us on a 300 dirham two-hour tour of the city, which we hesitantly declined. After finding out later that we were way closer to the mosque than he had led us to believe, and that the fare could have been something like 10 dirham, we were glad we had passed.

The mosque was gorgeous and had the world's largest sunroof. Seriously, they have a button to oen up the roof when it gets hot. We took a tour with a hilariously sassy tour guide who seemed very indignant to have to be waiting for a Romanian translator to repeat her spiel to his group (although the Romanian tourists were inexplicably even more indignant). Sometimes she would whisper us facts so that the translator couldn't hear; I guess she like us better. She gave us drections to the old Medina where she assured us that we would find a good restaurant for lunch.

We followed her directions and found ourselves in the middle of a claustrophobic maze of alleys with nary another foreigner in sight. We Were again very obviously lost when a friendly man approached us and introduced himself. Our new friend, Reda offered to help us find a suitable place to eat. After following him through the windy back alleys for about fifteen minutes, we decided that this might not have been the best idea and asked him to bring us somewhere to get a taxi. He kindly complied and said that the next time we are in Casa we should be sure to visit his family's store. Now we know where he was going with us.

We again tried to get our bearings with the map and spent another half an hour trying to find the restaurant suggested by Julia's guidebook as a cheap and good place to eat. Despite its purported fame, no one seemed to have ever heard of it and/or gave us completely unhelpful directions. Finally, we were approached by Walid, who gave us directions but told us that the restaurant was a complete tourist trap. He offered to show us a more authentic place in exchange for the opportunity to practice his English. We enjoyed authentic couscous and delicious Moroccan tea and talked about religion, politics, and language. Walid said he would show us the king's palace and then send us off to the train station to return to the airport. Things were going well for a while, and he was an excellent guide, but when he pressed us to lend him money and we did not comply, he pointed us to the train and took off in the other direction. We decided to take a taxi back, to ensure that we made it safely, and even managed to catch a glimpse of the palace along the way.

Waiting for the train, we talked to an older French couple who were retourning from Toulouse after a week-long trek through the Sahara. They commended us on our French and wished us luck with our studies. On the train we chatted up our seatmate Haleel, who told us of his travels all around Europe. He gave us advice on things to do in Dakar and congratulated us on our adventurousness. While waiting for our plane, we befriended François Gerard and his older sister and younger brother. They were returning to their home in Dakar after a week of skiing in Maine. It was also the eve of François' fifth birthday and he promised that if I came to his party he would give me lots of presents and even make me a surprise cake. Unfortunately, I had to decline his generous offer.

We came to Dakar many friends richer but more exhausted than ever. We were met at the airport and driven to our apartments where we crashed for the night. The accomodations are very nice, and we have hot showers and comfortable beds. In the morning we were greeted by a delicious breakfast of bread with jam, cheese, and chocolate and coffee. We were joined by Samba, who was to take us to the Baobab Center, the organization hosting us in Dakar. Samba, in addition to doing cross cultural orientations for the Baobab Center, is an accomplished documentary film maker and promised to put us in contact with the most interesting people to help us with our research projects.

If you made it all the way to the end, congratulations! I have so much more to say, but I've already burdened you with this novella, so I'll save the rest for later.

A bientot!