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!