"partir pour mieux revenir". I got this proverb from the sweet French Canadian dude I met while I was in Mali, and am desperately trying to keep it as my motto as the countdown is officially on with a little over 3 weeks left until I must return to the States. Seeing as how the internet has not worked on campus for the past week and I am now actually having to write final papers for my classes, this will be one of the last blogs I post before entering into American life again.
A recap of an interesting thing that happened in my life since the last post: I went to Bambey with my friend Babs to visit his village for a long weekend. He is from an area in the interior of Senegal and his village is in conjunction with 2 others making up the Bambey region. This past experience reminded me of why I am so grateful to have such a diverse range of friends here. While many similarities can be made from one village in Senegal to another, I have had the opportunity to see the cultural divergences between ethnic groups. Babs is from Bambey Sereer (pronounced sare-rare); meaning that everyone in the village was from the Sereer ethnic group and participated in their ethnic practices.
I was once again placed in the family setting where most of the women did not speak French, however luckily for me they did speak Wolof (as compared to only Pulaar in Hore Fonde). Everyone's first language was Sereer, and pleasantly enough for me the few phrases/words I learned in Sereer were only greeted with utter pleasure that I cared enough to learn their language. Comme d'habitude the family was all acceptance and hospitality. I had a great time bonding with one of the women in the housing compound learning to make mafe (yummy peanut sauce with rice) and ceeb bu weex. Despite my love for cooking however, I became a little disenchanted after seeing Mageat (my friend) spend every moment of each day centered around cooking process. It was interesting for me to participate in it and realize how much I could never do what she was doing, and yet this is how 97% of the female population in Senegal spends their lives.
My second eye opening experience was seeing the relationships between family members in Babs' polygamous family. Polygamy is a huge part of the culture here and is frequently discussed, but to see it in action is always different. Especially coming from a Western point of view, I was mildly surprised at how cohesively the two wives and kids interacted. Babs told me that there have never really been any problems between the two families and that he has always considered the second wife and kids just as much his family as anyone else. This coming from someone who wants to only have one wife. Having personal experience seeing a polygamous marriage in harmony was a good thing in helping me to keep an open perspective when thinking about the personal lives of a huge percentage of people in the world. So this was just a brief part of my new experience. It has been so rewarding seeing and meeting the lives of my campus friends. It is surprising how much I learn in just a short visit.
All I have to say is that I hope I can come back again to see all those who were so welcoming to me. I'm crossing my fingers and praying to God.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Senegal neex na, walla?
I’ve been keeping this list for a few months now, adding a little here and there depending on what has happened in my life and how I have reacted to it. It originated from the “dark days” of my time here, when I needed a place to vent and then have some way to remind myself why I am glad/fortunate to be in this country. It also illustrates dualism of life here. I am hoping that the fact that I have much more “loves” than “bads” reflects the fact that I have still retained being a positive person. It should reflect culture, lifestyle, personal experiences, and just random thoughts of mine while being here. It will always be shifting, adding and subtracting, but since I haven’t written in a while I figured now is as good a time as any to publish it. I will be interested to see how much sense it makes to anyone else besides me. Enjoy.
(*I’ll start with the frustrations/bad so that I can end on the good note with my loves)
Reasons Why Senegal Isn’t Always the Best Place in the World.
Comparisons. Everything you do is compared to someone else who [usually] does it better. “Why don’t you speak Wolof as good as X?”
Sharing. There is no such thing as private property. If someone knows you have it, it is perfectly acceptable to demand it.
Men. Genuine - but not. The concept of love is so hard to believe in here.
Public Transportation. Never reliable. Sometimes it takes one hour, sometimes five…both are reasonable.
Family. Everyone else thinks they know best. If they are older, it is expected to do whatever they want you to do. They always have to know who, what, where, when, independence is a bizarre concept on this front.
Class. Since when is it acceptable to criticize someone else?
Romanticism is ridiculously cheesy.
Goals for yourself are always tied to your family. Individual plans and success don’t last long.
Racism. Good or bad it is there and you will never be able to get past it.
Wolofization. The forced culture of the “necessity” of speaking/learning Wolof. Yet no matter how good you get you can never be fully accepted.
Emotions. I feel like a pregnant woman because I am so all over the place.
People you don’t know think it is ok to interrupt you whenever they want.
The showy-ness of so many aspects of life. I.e. religion, teranga, personal vanities.
People always think you are rich.
Reasons Why I Love Senegal.
Greetings. You are always expected to acknowledge people when you enter a public place/see someone you know, but in return you receive the same respect.
Family. Everyone is Aunt, Uncle, Cousin, Brother, Sister, Yaay, Papa, no matter the relation.
Teranga. You are always welcome into a strangers home for food or lodging or conversation.
Sharing. Selfishness is not acceptable. If you have wealth, share your good fortune.
Men. I have never gotten so many compliments consistently in my life.
Public Transportation. Always available and usually cheap.
Humility. “C’est la vie” attitude. Hardship is dealt with and moved on-self pity is non-existent.
Mediation. If you have a problem/argument with someone your mutual friend comes in and smoothes over both sides. It is rare to have a face to face confrontation.
Emotions. I feel every emotion here so much more intensely than I have ever had.
Ataaya. It fosters a “sit back and relax” atmosphere.
Discussions. Often revolve around religion, family/marriage, or dreams of a better life.
Not taboo to be romantic.
Sense of duty to help the family and support and care for them.
Contact. Boys who are friends hold hands.
Sante Yallah. You thank God for your health every day.
Jamm. You wish peace upon others.
Inch’allah. Don’t take life for granted.
Kids can be kids. Parents leave kids to learn things for themselves.
It takes a village to raise a child. Everyone takes care of other children, even if they don’t know them.
I have realized my closet dream of becoming a fashion designer.
The mix of old beliefs/practices and new.
Languages. Countless=richness.
The DANCE CULTURE.
(*I’ll start with the frustrations/bad so that I can end on the good note with my loves)
Reasons Why Senegal Isn’t Always the Best Place in the World.
Comparisons. Everything you do is compared to someone else who [usually] does it better. “Why don’t you speak Wolof as good as X?”
Sharing. There is no such thing as private property. If someone knows you have it, it is perfectly acceptable to demand it.
Men. Genuine - but not. The concept of love is so hard to believe in here.
Public Transportation. Never reliable. Sometimes it takes one hour, sometimes five…both are reasonable.
Family. Everyone else thinks they know best. If they are older, it is expected to do whatever they want you to do. They always have to know who, what, where, when, independence is a bizarre concept on this front.
Class. Since when is it acceptable to criticize someone else?
Romanticism is ridiculously cheesy.
Goals for yourself are always tied to your family. Individual plans and success don’t last long.
Racism. Good or bad it is there and you will never be able to get past it.
Wolofization. The forced culture of the “necessity” of speaking/learning Wolof. Yet no matter how good you get you can never be fully accepted.
Emotions. I feel like a pregnant woman because I am so all over the place.
People you don’t know think it is ok to interrupt you whenever they want.
The showy-ness of so many aspects of life. I.e. religion, teranga, personal vanities.
People always think you are rich.
Reasons Why I Love Senegal.
Greetings. You are always expected to acknowledge people when you enter a public place/see someone you know, but in return you receive the same respect.
Family. Everyone is Aunt, Uncle, Cousin, Brother, Sister, Yaay, Papa, no matter the relation.
Teranga. You are always welcome into a strangers home for food or lodging or conversation.
Sharing. Selfishness is not acceptable. If you have wealth, share your good fortune.
Men. I have never gotten so many compliments consistently in my life.
Public Transportation. Always available and usually cheap.
Humility. “C’est la vie” attitude. Hardship is dealt with and moved on-self pity is non-existent.
Mediation. If you have a problem/argument with someone your mutual friend comes in and smoothes over both sides. It is rare to have a face to face confrontation.
Emotions. I feel every emotion here so much more intensely than I have ever had.
Ataaya. It fosters a “sit back and relax” atmosphere.
Discussions. Often revolve around religion, family/marriage, or dreams of a better life.
Not taboo to be romantic.
Sense of duty to help the family and support and care for them.
Contact. Boys who are friends hold hands.
Sante Yallah. You thank God for your health every day.
Jamm. You wish peace upon others.
Inch’allah. Don’t take life for granted.
Kids can be kids. Parents leave kids to learn things for themselves.
It takes a village to raise a child. Everyone takes care of other children, even if they don’t know them.
I have realized my closet dream of becoming a fashion designer.
The mix of old beliefs/practices and new.
Languages. Countless=richness.
The DANCE CULTURE.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
March Just Got Cashed
“March is cashed”. The famous phrase that encapsulated my month before it even started. After being in Touba my travels had only just begun. It all officially started March 12th at 3am. It officially ended April 6th at 5:30pm. Just like with my three weeks with Katie, there is no way I can write down all of my experiences in one blog. However, here are some of the highlights:
TRIP TO NIKOLO KOBA REGION: NATIONAL PARK, KEDOUGOU. March 12-16th.
- -18 hour bus-ride with 18 other American girls from campus to the south eastern corner of Senegal
- One night in the Wildlife Reserve
- 2 Safaris: 1 water, 1 land…consisting of warthogs, 3 species of antelope, crocodiles, hippos, lots of birds, monkeys, and unfortunately NO lions this time
- Two nights on the border with Guinea Conakry
- An icy swim in a watering hole fueled by a huge waterfall nestled in the mountains
- A hike up a mountain to visit the Bassari people, an ethnic group barely touched by modernization (think National Geographic).
- Second visit to Touba mosque, this time during the day to take pictures.
FUTA REGION: LE VILLAGE DE HORÉ FONDÉ. March 17-22nd.
- 8 hour wait for a bus in 43ºC heat
- One night in Richard Toll (because where we were going was so far away, no one else was going there until the next afternoon)
- Stayed with my friend, Demba, and his younger brother at his grandmother’s house
- Practiced my Pulaar skills (g’ma only speaks Pul, and most of the village is from the Pulaar ethnic group). “Aheeli Jamm. Mbata?”
- Met the Chief/King of the village
- Ate 4-5 different Senegalese specialities/plates per meal
- Milked a cow!!!!!!(My dream, finally realized!)
- Drank the milk still warm from the cow. Mmm, whole and creamy.
DAKAR. March 22-27th.
*Stayed a night with Demba’s nuclear family in Pikine, an outer quartier/suburb of Dakar. This is the ghetto of Dakar. They may have better access to running water, but when was the last time you lived in a 4 room apartment with 10 members of your family (5 boys, 1 girl, 1 cousin with 2 kids, and 2 parents)? Also only Pulaar with the women, the men thankfully spoke French and Wolof. Easter spent with this Muslim family. They made me the traditional dish that the Christians all make for Easter, ngalax.
MALI: BAMAKO, MOPTI, BANDIAGARA, DOGON COUNTRY, DJENNÉ. March 27-April 6th.
- 10 total vehicle breakdowns of varying degrees of gravity
- 52 hour sept-place/mini-car/bus voyage from Dakar, Sénégal to Bamako, Mali
- 2 nights spent in abandoned buses
- 1 night spent on a concrete slab at the police station (yes, it was voluntary)
- Got the royal treatment in Bamako at my oldest host sister, Poupy’s pimped out house (her husband works for the IMF).
- Got a manicure and pedicure Malian style for 25¢
- Spent a Bamako afternoon drinking tea, getting a Bambara language lesson, and eating a Malian specialty (like lax only less sweet and with a millet base)
- Best April Fools Day joke played on us; instead of ending up in Djenné as planned, we wake up on the bus at 1am to find ourselves in Mopti, 90km further north.
- 18 km hike through the cliffs of the southern end of Dogon Country (an ancient ethnic group living IN the cliffs)
- 1 night under the stars on a campement roof…romantic until we survived the Harmattan wind sandstorm
- A taste of Crème du Dogon, aka LA FORCE, aka Crazy Cream!
- A taste of millet beer, shared with the old men of Djiguibombo, a Dogon village
- Full body massage from a traditional medicine man
- Saw the largest mud mosque in the world
- Visited one of the oldest towns in Western Africa
- Met a super awesome French Canadian traveler on the last leg of his 3 month trek around Western Africa. He has me pretty much convinced I’m moving to Montreal.
- Met Nordine. Half Hollandaise, half Spaniard-try to understand that mix/accent. Never heard such stories.
*Made it back safe and sound. Alxamdoulilahi. Started my second semester classes, so far so good. Now just trying to recuperate and make my body happy with me again. Looking forward to being home and staying on campus.
Thanks. Merci. Jerrejef. Adjarama. Gana. Initié.
TRIP TO NIKOLO KOBA REGION: NATIONAL PARK, KEDOUGOU. March 12-16th.
- -18 hour bus-ride with 18 other American girls from campus to the south eastern corner of Senegal
- One night in the Wildlife Reserve
- 2 Safaris: 1 water, 1 land…consisting of warthogs, 3 species of antelope, crocodiles, hippos, lots of birds, monkeys, and unfortunately NO lions this time
- Two nights on the border with Guinea Conakry
- An icy swim in a watering hole fueled by a huge waterfall nestled in the mountains
- A hike up a mountain to visit the Bassari people, an ethnic group barely touched by modernization (think National Geographic).
- Second visit to Touba mosque, this time during the day to take pictures.
FUTA REGION: LE VILLAGE DE HORÉ FONDÉ. March 17-22nd.
- 8 hour wait for a bus in 43ºC heat
- One night in Richard Toll (because where we were going was so far away, no one else was going there until the next afternoon)
- Stayed with my friend, Demba, and his younger brother at his grandmother’s house
- Practiced my Pulaar skills (g’ma only speaks Pul, and most of the village is from the Pulaar ethnic group). “Aheeli Jamm. Mbata?”
- Met the Chief/King of the village
- Ate 4-5 different Senegalese specialities/plates per meal
- Milked a cow!!!!!!(My dream, finally realized!)
- Drank the milk still warm from the cow. Mmm, whole and creamy.
DAKAR. March 22-27th.
*Stayed a night with Demba’s nuclear family in Pikine, an outer quartier/suburb of Dakar. This is the ghetto of Dakar. They may have better access to running water, but when was the last time you lived in a 4 room apartment with 10 members of your family (5 boys, 1 girl, 1 cousin with 2 kids, and 2 parents)? Also only Pulaar with the women, the men thankfully spoke French and Wolof. Easter spent with this Muslim family. They made me the traditional dish that the Christians all make for Easter, ngalax.
MALI: BAMAKO, MOPTI, BANDIAGARA, DOGON COUNTRY, DJENNÉ. March 27-April 6th.
- 10 total vehicle breakdowns of varying degrees of gravity
- 52 hour sept-place/mini-car/bus voyage from Dakar, Sénégal to Bamako, Mali
- 2 nights spent in abandoned buses
- 1 night spent on a concrete slab at the police station (yes, it was voluntary)
- Got the royal treatment in Bamako at my oldest host sister, Poupy’s pimped out house (her husband works for the IMF).
- Got a manicure and pedicure Malian style for 25¢
- Spent a Bamako afternoon drinking tea, getting a Bambara language lesson, and eating a Malian specialty (like lax only less sweet and with a millet base)
- Best April Fools Day joke played on us; instead of ending up in Djenné as planned, we wake up on the bus at 1am to find ourselves in Mopti, 90km further north.
- 18 km hike through the cliffs of the southern end of Dogon Country (an ancient ethnic group living IN the cliffs)
- 1 night under the stars on a campement roof…romantic until we survived the Harmattan wind sandstorm
- A taste of Crème du Dogon, aka LA FORCE, aka Crazy Cream!
- A taste of millet beer, shared with the old men of Djiguibombo, a Dogon village
- Full body massage from a traditional medicine man
- Saw the largest mud mosque in the world
- Visited one of the oldest towns in Western Africa
- Met a super awesome French Canadian traveler on the last leg of his 3 month trek around Western Africa. He has me pretty much convinced I’m moving to Montreal.
- Met Nordine. Half Hollandaise, half Spaniard-try to understand that mix/accent. Never heard such stories.
*Made it back safe and sound. Alxamdoulilahi. Started my second semester classes, so far so good. Now just trying to recuperate and make my body happy with me again. Looking forward to being home and staying on campus.
Thanks. Merci. Jerrejef. Adjarama. Gana. Initié.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
ME IN TOUBA!!!WALLABOK
*Making ceebu jen. Oh yeah, I learned all the necessary skills in being a good Senegalese wife.
*In the Mosque at the Mausoleum.
Touba: The Religious Awakening
I just spent last week in the most religious city of Senegal, Touba. It is the birthplace of the Mouride brotherhood and the home to one of the most beautiful mosques in Senegal. The purpose of my trip was to be a participant in the largest religious homage in Senegal, the Magal. As is evident by my previous discussions about life here, religion is a crucial aspect of life in this country. My experience staying with my friend Khassoum Ndiaye and his family was to say the least, magical. Religious learning experience aside, I was privy to an acceptance and addition to their family life at a level that I was not expecting. No matter how I try to explain what happened, I will never be able to capture the intense emotional whirlwind that I faced. I will store it in my memory and leave you all to your own devices in extracting what you can from my descriptions and photos. Therefore, seeing as how everyone reading this blog has probably the same level of knowledge about Islamic religion that I had before coming here (so next to nothing), I figure that this blog is as good a time as any to try and relay the small fraction of what I have learned.
Let me just start by saying that Senegal has a unique spin on Islam because of the integral brotherhoods which are the basis religious belief here. Their complicated system is based off of Sufism, which is the more mystical aspect of Islam, and is often associated with African societies because of its connection to original animistic beliefs. There are four brotherhoods of which probably over 90% of the Muslims here are members. The most common and largest membership base is the Mouride brotherhood. The three others are Qadrya, Layeen, and Tijanya. Each brotherhood follows the Islamic principles, but each has a slightly different interpretation of the Koran and therefore have different prayers; I like to make the analogy of the differences between Protestant churches. Each brotherhood is overseen by a Grand Marabout (Wolof: Xalif). In one of my previous blogs I talked about my friend’s dad who was a Marabout. There are multiple Marabouts within each brotherhood; this is like how there are archbishops/the Pope (Grand Marabouts) and then priests (regular Marabouts) guiding and leading the disciples. Marabouts are given way more respect here than a priest would be, but at least the analogy can give you an idea of how the hierarchy works. All of the brotherhoods believe in Muhammad as the last prophet and follow the 5 pillars of Islamic faith; pray to Mecca 5 times a day, there is one God and Muhammad is the last prophet (although they recognize people like Jesus and Moses as other great prophets as well), must fast during the month of Ramadan, give alms to the needy, [means permitting] go to Mecca on a pilgrimage at least once in your lifetime.
**Within the Mouride brotherhood a sub-sect has developed, called baayfalls. These are the guys who are considered the official “rastas” in Senegal. They have a certain style in both westernized stereotype but also in Senegalese clothing. They have some beliefs that are a bit more unusual, and are highly subject to multiple interpretations. As of late they have had a more “badass” rep because of their higher tendency to drink, be associated with smoking weed, and as a result-according to “good Muslims”-have more violent incidents. However, the ones who stay true to the original principles are more equivalent to hippies in the US (very peace-loving and “chill”).**
The town of Touba was founded by the father of the Mouride brotherhood, Cheikh Amadou Bamba Mbacke. During the French colonial period the amount of power that Cheikh Amadou Bamba had threatened the colonial rule, and so he was exiled to France. The Magal is the celebration of the day of his return to Senegal and Touba. Over a million people from all over Senegal (and even the world) flock to Touba for the week to pay homage to this man. Everyone tries to make at least one trip to the Grand Mosque during this time, and fortunately for me, is open to non-Muslims as well.
I went to the Mosque quite a few days before Magal and so avoided the bigger part of the crowds. In staying as inconspicuous as possible and following Muslim etiquette I wore my Tabaski dress with its long sleeves and long skirt and covered my head with the required scarf. Upon entering the Mosque I was left speechless. With marble flooring and columns and intricate colored tiling, I was blown away by its grandeur. What hit me hardest however was my utter sense of peace. Once through the gates I took off my shoes [required upon entering] and went with Khass to the Mausoleums which are sporadically connected or placed within the gates of the Mosque. Each Mausoleum houses a former Grand Marabout and normally each Mouride has a preferred “leader” to whom they pray (this is typically based on the types of works and philosophy he had embodied). As a non-Muslim I was not allowed into the inner parts of the Mosque where prayers where held, however I was able to kneel alongside everyone else at the Mausoleums and say my prayers. I have definitely had some spiritual moments in my lifetime, with Senegal surprisingly exponentially increasing these times. My experience in the Mosque was one of those times where something bigger than myself happened. How does one explain religious tolerance if not through a Christian and a Muslim kneeling side by side praying to the same God, in one of His Houses? As you can all imagine I spent a lot of time reflecting on my religious situation and only wish that everyone could participate in some part of what I experienced. I kept thinking about the distorted image of Islam that we as Americans have, through what the media portrays, as well as our own general ignorance. Muslims are founded on the principle of peace, and I was fully convinced of this after my first barefoot step onto the religious ground.
Heavy material, and to think this took place in the space of an hour and a half. Being in Senegal has forced me to think on a much more philosophical level; this is partially by default as a study abroad student, but also with my program being so much more involved in cultural life it becomes essential as a way to process everything that I come across.
“How wonderful it is, how pleasant, for God’s people to live together in harmony!”
Psalms 133:1
Laah y laha y lallah. Il n’y a que Dieu. There is only [one] God.
Jamm ak Jamm.
Let me just start by saying that Senegal has a unique spin on Islam because of the integral brotherhoods which are the basis religious belief here. Their complicated system is based off of Sufism, which is the more mystical aspect of Islam, and is often associated with African societies because of its connection to original animistic beliefs. There are four brotherhoods of which probably over 90% of the Muslims here are members. The most common and largest membership base is the Mouride brotherhood. The three others are Qadrya, Layeen, and Tijanya. Each brotherhood follows the Islamic principles, but each has a slightly different interpretation of the Koran and therefore have different prayers; I like to make the analogy of the differences between Protestant churches. Each brotherhood is overseen by a Grand Marabout (Wolof: Xalif). In one of my previous blogs I talked about my friend’s dad who was a Marabout. There are multiple Marabouts within each brotherhood; this is like how there are archbishops/the Pope (Grand Marabouts) and then priests (regular Marabouts) guiding and leading the disciples. Marabouts are given way more respect here than a priest would be, but at least the analogy can give you an idea of how the hierarchy works. All of the brotherhoods believe in Muhammad as the last prophet and follow the 5 pillars of Islamic faith; pray to Mecca 5 times a day, there is one God and Muhammad is the last prophet (although they recognize people like Jesus and Moses as other great prophets as well), must fast during the month of Ramadan, give alms to the needy, [means permitting] go to Mecca on a pilgrimage at least once in your lifetime.
**Within the Mouride brotherhood a sub-sect has developed, called baayfalls. These are the guys who are considered the official “rastas” in Senegal. They have a certain style in both westernized stereotype but also in Senegalese clothing. They have some beliefs that are a bit more unusual, and are highly subject to multiple interpretations. As of late they have had a more “badass” rep because of their higher tendency to drink, be associated with smoking weed, and as a result-according to “good Muslims”-have more violent incidents. However, the ones who stay true to the original principles are more equivalent to hippies in the US (very peace-loving and “chill”).**
The town of Touba was founded by the father of the Mouride brotherhood, Cheikh Amadou Bamba Mbacke. During the French colonial period the amount of power that Cheikh Amadou Bamba had threatened the colonial rule, and so he was exiled to France. The Magal is the celebration of the day of his return to Senegal and Touba. Over a million people from all over Senegal (and even the world) flock to Touba for the week to pay homage to this man. Everyone tries to make at least one trip to the Grand Mosque during this time, and fortunately for me, is open to non-Muslims as well.
I went to the Mosque quite a few days before Magal and so avoided the bigger part of the crowds. In staying as inconspicuous as possible and following Muslim etiquette I wore my Tabaski dress with its long sleeves and long skirt and covered my head with the required scarf. Upon entering the Mosque I was left speechless. With marble flooring and columns and intricate colored tiling, I was blown away by its grandeur. What hit me hardest however was my utter sense of peace. Once through the gates I took off my shoes [required upon entering] and went with Khass to the Mausoleums which are sporadically connected or placed within the gates of the Mosque. Each Mausoleum houses a former Grand Marabout and normally each Mouride has a preferred “leader” to whom they pray (this is typically based on the types of works and philosophy he had embodied). As a non-Muslim I was not allowed into the inner parts of the Mosque where prayers where held, however I was able to kneel alongside everyone else at the Mausoleums and say my prayers. I have definitely had some spiritual moments in my lifetime, with Senegal surprisingly exponentially increasing these times. My experience in the Mosque was one of those times where something bigger than myself happened. How does one explain religious tolerance if not through a Christian and a Muslim kneeling side by side praying to the same God, in one of His Houses? As you can all imagine I spent a lot of time reflecting on my religious situation and only wish that everyone could participate in some part of what I experienced. I kept thinking about the distorted image of Islam that we as Americans have, through what the media portrays, as well as our own general ignorance. Muslims are founded on the principle of peace, and I was fully convinced of this after my first barefoot step onto the religious ground.
Heavy material, and to think this took place in the space of an hour and a half. Being in Senegal has forced me to think on a much more philosophical level; this is partially by default as a study abroad student, but also with my program being so much more involved in cultural life it becomes essential as a way to process everything that I come across.
“How wonderful it is, how pleasant, for God’s people to live together in harmony!”
Psalms 133:1
Laah y laha y lallah. Il n’y a que Dieu. There is only [one] God.
Jamm ak Jamm.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Tressed photos
Tressed Hair!! I got it to stay in for a little over 3 weeks. It started to come undone where my real hair started so I took it out today. The first picture is the after-effect of my detressing this morning.
The Constant Balance
The paradox in being a foreigner is never far away from thought. I just spent yesterday classic Senegalese style, but with my own American-ness coloring my experience.
My afternoon is what describes my frustrations and yet what I have also come to cherish in this country. The plan had been to call up our international studies advisor to try and figure out our credits transferring [with the end of the semester approaching, the new University system here, and a very inflexible and ignorant discussion professor, minor crises have arisen…]. After our talk with her, we were then going to go speak to Baydallaye to continue to negotiate our never-ending schedules and education methods here.
So in the US, this plan would have maybe taken 1 hour. However, instead of everything going according to plan, we ended up resigning ourselves to an entire afternoon of waiting for people to show up at their offices. Normally in the US, this would be a complete waste of time and every effort would be made to fit something else in while waiting around. While I may not have huge obligations here, I still feel the habitual pull to constantly be doing something productive, like studying. However much I was feeling frustrated by the unreliability of the people who are supposed to be in charge, and the fact that time frames of others are so rarely thought of, I was able to relax throughout the process sit and eat some Thiakry with Jill (who was my partner throughout this escapade), and take the “wasted” day in stride. Looking back, I realize that this feeling is one of assimilation. Do as the Romans do. When faced with slow-paced, unreliable life, all one can do is react in the same way. Hence, one finds acceptance in an afternoon where nothing was resolved or accomplished, yet it was relaxed and enjoyed with a friend. I’ve found that the mentality where it is completely accepted to spend a day with not a whole lot accomplished (by “American” standards), can be refreshing after the high-charged atmosphere which is such cultural norm in the US. Life here is simple. Take it as you will; there is both good and bad to it. But in terms of cultural assimilation-in order to cope with the differences in lifestyles-I have taken to giving myself one goal for the day, no matter how small. This somehow allows me to deal with the inability to charge through each day with a full plate, checking off multiple projects and programs, and ending it feeling like there was a reason for being here.
As just one of many reasons, this cultural occurrence lets me understand on a micro-scale why development of a country can be so difficult. How do you keep the good aspects of taking the time of day for someone and flexibility which are so deeply rooted in Senegalese values, and move forward into an environment where schedules are respected, working hard doesn’t include one hour attaaya breaks to every two hours of work, and organization is an expectation, not an added bonus? This question comes down to the most important lesson I am learning about studying abroad. Life is about balance. Studying abroad is about finding that balance within yourself and searching for a way to balance everything around you. Everyone searching for the best method and constantly adjusting in accordance with that; for this is what learning about new cultures is about. I am deciding for myself what is so great about the US, and also what is great about Senegal. Here I am, growing through my experience. But really, I am living my life here on this day to day basis, constantly trying to reconcile my two worlds, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not.
My afternoon is what describes my frustrations and yet what I have also come to cherish in this country. The plan had been to call up our international studies advisor to try and figure out our credits transferring [with the end of the semester approaching, the new University system here, and a very inflexible and ignorant discussion professor, minor crises have arisen…]. After our talk with her, we were then going to go speak to Baydallaye to continue to negotiate our never-ending schedules and education methods here.
So in the US, this plan would have maybe taken 1 hour. However, instead of everything going according to plan, we ended up resigning ourselves to an entire afternoon of waiting for people to show up at their offices. Normally in the US, this would be a complete waste of time and every effort would be made to fit something else in while waiting around. While I may not have huge obligations here, I still feel the habitual pull to constantly be doing something productive, like studying. However much I was feeling frustrated by the unreliability of the people who are supposed to be in charge, and the fact that time frames of others are so rarely thought of, I was able to relax throughout the process sit and eat some Thiakry with Jill (who was my partner throughout this escapade), and take the “wasted” day in stride. Looking back, I realize that this feeling is one of assimilation. Do as the Romans do. When faced with slow-paced, unreliable life, all one can do is react in the same way. Hence, one finds acceptance in an afternoon where nothing was resolved or accomplished, yet it was relaxed and enjoyed with a friend. I’ve found that the mentality where it is completely accepted to spend a day with not a whole lot accomplished (by “American” standards), can be refreshing after the high-charged atmosphere which is such cultural norm in the US. Life here is simple. Take it as you will; there is both good and bad to it. But in terms of cultural assimilation-in order to cope with the differences in lifestyles-I have taken to giving myself one goal for the day, no matter how small. This somehow allows me to deal with the inability to charge through each day with a full plate, checking off multiple projects and programs, and ending it feeling like there was a reason for being here.
As just one of many reasons, this cultural occurrence lets me understand on a micro-scale why development of a country can be so difficult. How do you keep the good aspects of taking the time of day for someone and flexibility which are so deeply rooted in Senegalese values, and move forward into an environment where schedules are respected, working hard doesn’t include one hour attaaya breaks to every two hours of work, and organization is an expectation, not an added bonus? This question comes down to the most important lesson I am learning about studying abroad. Life is about balance. Studying abroad is about finding that balance within yourself and searching for a way to balance everything around you. Everyone searching for the best method and constantly adjusting in accordance with that; for this is what learning about new cultures is about. I am deciding for myself what is so great about the US, and also what is great about Senegal. Here I am, growing through my experience. But really, I am living my life here on this day to day basis, constantly trying to reconcile my two worlds, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
La Tristesse
Death is a universal truth. It transcends centuries and borders. It spares no culture, leaves no one untouched.
Last week my friend Marra's father died. He was 58 years old. The news was spread through an announcement at karate practice (he is the president of the club). As is custom, the club tried to obtain a car to bring some members down to the funeral; but as is so common in these parts, lack of funds hindered their ability to do so. With the recent experience of my two grandparents' deaths, I knew that personal physical support is one of the best ways to help someone deal with such a loss. Therefore I decided to make the trip anyways with Marra's best friend, Demba (also another karate member).
Hearing the news made a bigger impact on me than I would have expected. I had never met Marra's dad, so I only knew of him through the few stories Marra had shared with me. Perhaps it was the apparent suddeness of the news, or the stark reality of life here, or my own separation (distance) from my parents, but the thought of losing a parent really made my heart go out to my friend. As is Muslim custom, the body must be buried as soon as possible; within 24 hours if feasible. However, there is a mourning period of a week after the death when people and family are expected to come and express their condolences. While any day during the week is acceptable to come gather, it is the 3rd or 8th day that is picked by the family as (the Christian equivalent to the memorial service) the important time to come and support the family. I went down to the village for the 8th day. The impact of the death of Marra's father will have innumerable effects, not only because he was a father, but also because he was a Marabout (the Christian equivalent to a lay-pastor but is a highly respected religious leader wherever he goes in the country) and chief of the village. Upon arrival in the village my first impression of my friend was of how normally he seemed to be functioning. Demba and I were immediately thrown into the "funeral process", basically just meeting as many family members as possible. What an experience in itself; so many lessons to be learned just from these simple exchanges. Not only was basically everything in Wolof, but the act of expressing condolences could have almost been comic, excluding the solemnity of the occasion. For each person there was an introduction and then approximately 5 minutes of straight "ça va? ça va. ça va. ça va. jamm rekk. jamm rekk....alxamdoulilahi" (it's going. peace only. thanks be to God) repeated back and forth in a ceaseless stream with perhaps a slight interjection of "sante rekk" (health only) and then the conclusion of "merci. merci. merci..." On the surface this might seem shallow and unconsoling, but in the moment explains everything. In any death situation there are no words to make things better. Therefore, repeatedly acknowmedging that you are at peace, or thank God for your health, at least belies a gratitude and acceptance of life's course.
There were at least 200 people in the village compound the 8th day and I observed not a single person crying. The funeral process perfectly illustrates a Senegalese mentality and cultural expectation: life moves on and nothing is a given in this world. One is expected to accept the hardships of life and never take for granted what you have, hence the ever repeated mantra, "inchallah" (if God wills it). Self-pity is non-existant in this world where Senegalese are raised to gard any emotions which betray hardship. Crying is rarely seen, for it is perceived to be a weakness. This stoicism at times feels cold, but I have learned that they are survival methods in this country of few other options. Marra's dad had several wives and thus quite a few children. Not only did his biological children feel the loss, but as a Marabout he had numerous Talibé (the young boys who are sent away from home to Koranic school) in his charge. The age range was vast, some as young as 3 to older than 30. When I finally got up the courage to ask how his father died, Marra recounted the events surrounding his death. The week before his father had been coming home from the big town nearby with all of the supplies for the village. He had been riding in the car with his two sons, one of whom was driving. Just before the village entrance the car caught some sand and flipped over, killing only his dad and leaving the two brothers unharmed. While his father died instantly, had he been seriously injured there would of been little anyone could have done. The village is 10 km into the bush from the nearest paved road, and from there at least a half an hour drive to a medical center. What an ending.
Our mortality is so often dismissed in "the land of milk and honey" but here where survival forces you to take what life has given you, gratitude for one's presence in the world is constantly vocalized, "alxamdoulilahi". The story that Marra told me about his last memory of his father moved me to tears and lends such force to their acceptance of God's Will. A week before his dad's death, Marra spoke to him on the phone. His father had just returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca and Marra apologized to him for not being able to come back to the village for his homecoming celebration. All of the students were still waiting on their bourse and so it was too expensive to come (side note: round trip cost is about $15). His father said he understood and not to worry; when Marra next got the chance to come back he would give him the little souvenir he had brought back for him. They talked for a little longer, Marra telling him about how he missed the village and seeing his dad-since the last time he had been back was several months before. They ended the conversation by saying, "see you soon, inchallah". As Marra recounted the conversation he ended by saying, "there's a reason why we say, 'God willing.'"
Ever since coming here and learning the habit of saying "inchallah" and "alxamdoulilahi" I have loved adding such a simple reminder of my gratitude for the life I have been given. This event served as my reality to the neccessity of these sayings.
Thus I part with alxamdoulilahi.
Until the next post, inchallah.
Last week my friend Marra's father died. He was 58 years old. The news was spread through an announcement at karate practice (he is the president of the club). As is custom, the club tried to obtain a car to bring some members down to the funeral; but as is so common in these parts, lack of funds hindered their ability to do so. With the recent experience of my two grandparents' deaths, I knew that personal physical support is one of the best ways to help someone deal with such a loss. Therefore I decided to make the trip anyways with Marra's best friend, Demba (also another karate member).
Hearing the news made a bigger impact on me than I would have expected. I had never met Marra's dad, so I only knew of him through the few stories Marra had shared with me. Perhaps it was the apparent suddeness of the news, or the stark reality of life here, or my own separation (distance) from my parents, but the thought of losing a parent really made my heart go out to my friend. As is Muslim custom, the body must be buried as soon as possible; within 24 hours if feasible. However, there is a mourning period of a week after the death when people and family are expected to come and express their condolences. While any day during the week is acceptable to come gather, it is the 3rd or 8th day that is picked by the family as (the Christian equivalent to the memorial service) the important time to come and support the family. I went down to the village for the 8th day. The impact of the death of Marra's father will have innumerable effects, not only because he was a father, but also because he was a Marabout (the Christian equivalent to a lay-pastor but is a highly respected religious leader wherever he goes in the country) and chief of the village. Upon arrival in the village my first impression of my friend was of how normally he seemed to be functioning. Demba and I were immediately thrown into the "funeral process", basically just meeting as many family members as possible. What an experience in itself; so many lessons to be learned just from these simple exchanges. Not only was basically everything in Wolof, but the act of expressing condolences could have almost been comic, excluding the solemnity of the occasion. For each person there was an introduction and then approximately 5 minutes of straight "ça va? ça va. ça va. ça va. jamm rekk. jamm rekk....alxamdoulilahi" (it's going. peace only. thanks be to God) repeated back and forth in a ceaseless stream with perhaps a slight interjection of "sante rekk" (health only) and then the conclusion of "merci. merci. merci..." On the surface this might seem shallow and unconsoling, but in the moment explains everything. In any death situation there are no words to make things better. Therefore, repeatedly acknowmedging that you are at peace, or thank God for your health, at least belies a gratitude and acceptance of life's course.
There were at least 200 people in the village compound the 8th day and I observed not a single person crying. The funeral process perfectly illustrates a Senegalese mentality and cultural expectation: life moves on and nothing is a given in this world. One is expected to accept the hardships of life and never take for granted what you have, hence the ever repeated mantra, "inchallah" (if God wills it). Self-pity is non-existant in this world where Senegalese are raised to gard any emotions which betray hardship. Crying is rarely seen, for it is perceived to be a weakness. This stoicism at times feels cold, but I have learned that they are survival methods in this country of few other options. Marra's dad had several wives and thus quite a few children. Not only did his biological children feel the loss, but as a Marabout he had numerous Talibé (the young boys who are sent away from home to Koranic school) in his charge. The age range was vast, some as young as 3 to older than 30. When I finally got up the courage to ask how his father died, Marra recounted the events surrounding his death. The week before his father had been coming home from the big town nearby with all of the supplies for the village. He had been riding in the car with his two sons, one of whom was driving. Just before the village entrance the car caught some sand and flipped over, killing only his dad and leaving the two brothers unharmed. While his father died instantly, had he been seriously injured there would of been little anyone could have done. The village is 10 km into the bush from the nearest paved road, and from there at least a half an hour drive to a medical center. What an ending.
Our mortality is so often dismissed in "the land of milk and honey" but here where survival forces you to take what life has given you, gratitude for one's presence in the world is constantly vocalized, "alxamdoulilahi". The story that Marra told me about his last memory of his father moved me to tears and lends such force to their acceptance of God's Will. A week before his dad's death, Marra spoke to him on the phone. His father had just returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca and Marra apologized to him for not being able to come back to the village for his homecoming celebration. All of the students were still waiting on their bourse and so it was too expensive to come (side note: round trip cost is about $15). His father said he understood and not to worry; when Marra next got the chance to come back he would give him the little souvenir he had brought back for him. They talked for a little longer, Marra telling him about how he missed the village and seeing his dad-since the last time he had been back was several months before. They ended the conversation by saying, "see you soon, inchallah". As Marra recounted the conversation he ended by saying, "there's a reason why we say, 'God willing.'"
Ever since coming here and learning the habit of saying "inchallah" and "alxamdoulilahi" I have loved adding such a simple reminder of my gratitude for the life I have been given. This event served as my reality to the neccessity of these sayings.
Thus I part with alxamdoulilahi.
Until the next post, inchallah.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Rastafarian Love
Salut mes amis! So after a week of getting back into the swing of things on campus I am feeling back in the groove of Sénégal life. With that comes the realization that in the face of writing a blog about my experiences with Katie here, I get a little overwhelmed. Thus, I made the executive decision to "skip" over that period of time and try to get back on track. I do promise however, that when I return to the States I will have a show-and-tell session solely on those three weeks of my life. I took a ton of pictures and had so much happen, that it would be more worth it to describe in person.
Yesterday I finally did it. After talking about getting "tressed" ever since my friend Annie did it, I went to the coiffure. 5 hours later I stepped out of the tiny little hairdressers room with a headful of long blond braids and a totally new look. (I'll put up a picture soon) Going to the coiffure is definitely a Senegalese cultural experience. Because black people in general usually don't have a lot of hair, the women get fake hair put in in all sorts of styles. You can get braids, wigs, hair that is braided into your hair but then looks like real hair. Curly hair, fancy updos, you name it, I've probably seen it. Thus the process of going to a coiffure is part of normal "things to do" from anywhere between once a month to once every 2 months. So, in the morning I went into town to get the hair. I got two packets of this blond/caramel colored hair. Gotta have more cause of my huge mane. It was one of two colors that the hair place had for white people. Awesomely enough it was pretty much the exact color of my real hair. The hair itself looks kind of like doll hair, but is actually pretty close to the texture of real hair; completely fake though. For each packet it was about $3. Sweet. So at 4:00 yesterday I showed up at the "salon" and two ladies went to town. I sat on a rug on the floor and divided off small sections of the hair and handed it to the "head coiffure" as she braided the fake stuff into my real hair. I did a little reading for part of the time and also watched the football game on TV (it's the African Cup!). During the 5 hours I probably got up 3 times, so you can imagine how sore I felt when I finally finished. I think my butt is finally forgiving me just now.
The final look is crazy. I must say I look pretty Senegalese now, but definitely in a more Rastafarian mode than I would have predicted. I am quite pleased by how they turned out and am excited to see how long I can keep them in for. Best part? I don't have to do anything to them, no washing, no hairstyling. No upkeep. That rules! I'm already feelin the love. Bet you can't wait to see them...Don't worry you will all soon see.
Until then, keep it real. Jamm.
Yesterday I finally did it. After talking about getting "tressed" ever since my friend Annie did it, I went to the coiffure. 5 hours later I stepped out of the tiny little hairdressers room with a headful of long blond braids and a totally new look. (I'll put up a picture soon) Going to the coiffure is definitely a Senegalese cultural experience. Because black people in general usually don't have a lot of hair, the women get fake hair put in in all sorts of styles. You can get braids, wigs, hair that is braided into your hair but then looks like real hair. Curly hair, fancy updos, you name it, I've probably seen it. Thus the process of going to a coiffure is part of normal "things to do" from anywhere between once a month to once every 2 months. So, in the morning I went into town to get the hair. I got two packets of this blond/caramel colored hair. Gotta have more cause of my huge mane. It was one of two colors that the hair place had for white people. Awesomely enough it was pretty much the exact color of my real hair. The hair itself looks kind of like doll hair, but is actually pretty close to the texture of real hair; completely fake though. For each packet it was about $3. Sweet. So at 4:00 yesterday I showed up at the "salon" and two ladies went to town. I sat on a rug on the floor and divided off small sections of the hair and handed it to the "head coiffure" as she braided the fake stuff into my real hair. I did a little reading for part of the time and also watched the football game on TV (it's the African Cup!). During the 5 hours I probably got up 3 times, so you can imagine how sore I felt when I finally finished. I think my butt is finally forgiving me just now.
The final look is crazy. I must say I look pretty Senegalese now, but definitely in a more Rastafarian mode than I would have predicted. I am quite pleased by how they turned out and am excited to see how long I can keep them in for. Best part? I don't have to do anything to them, no washing, no hairstyling. No upkeep. That rules! I'm already feelin the love. Bet you can't wait to see them...Don't worry you will all soon see.
Until then, keep it real. Jamm.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
I'm ALIVE!
After my mother informed me that people have been asking about whether anything is wrong with me over here because I haven't written a blog for over a month, I figured I had better reassure everyone back home that I not only am alive, but had an excellent vacation.
To be technical about it, my winter break was supposed to last from December 15th to January 4th. However, with the long anticipated visit of my sister, Katie, I took quite an extension and didn't officially get back to my classes until the 15th of January. Because so much has happened since my last blog I'll try to block it out. Perhaps I'll do some installations...
Dec 15-Dec 20th: My first week of break was spent completely relaxing with my family in Dakar. It felt so similar to being in the States; you look forward to getting back "home" where you eat well and have less obligations. I ended up spending most of my days playing with Abdoul Aziz and baby Salimata, and helping my yaay do the cooking. It was great being able to learn a little about Senegalese cooking, but by the end of the week I was feeling kind of exhausted by the expectation that I prepare dinner practically every night because my mom was too tired. The eve of Tabaski came with the arrival of my friend Phil Paiement and his girlfriend from Holland. I picked them up from the airport and brought them to their hotel, and invited them to my family's Tabaski celebration when they woke up the next morning. The one thing I unfortunately forgot to tell them in advance was that because of the holidays the city basically shuts down. Everyone was celebrating, which meant that most shops were closed, markets were empty of vendors, and taxis became a rare commodity.
Dec 21st: TABASKI. So first off this holiday is similar to Korité in that the actual day is dependent upon the moon and some thing in the Koran (I say this in all seriousness because even most Muslims don't really get how the day is chosen, they only find out the day because their imam or marabou will tell them). It is interesting how the day is celebrated because there are debates each year as to why the mosque doesn't just choose one day and stick to it. For example, this year Mecca celebrated Tabaski on the 19th, then religious leaders in Senegal debated over whether Senegal could then celebrate it two days later, or if they had to do it the 20th...Needless to say, everyone gets confused and just picks the day that works for them. However, my Tabaski went rather smoothly. I got up around 9am and immediately was thrown into the process of preparing the meal. At about 10am, Douds along with Dass and 2 other helpers got the sheep ready for the slaughter. As is tradition for Tabaski, the head of the house does the actual killing of the sheep. Because my papa was on the Mecca pilgrimage this year, Douds cut the two sheeps' necks. I had thought I would be totally fine with watching everything, but I must say I was a little more than wide-eyed during the entire process. After what seemed to be enough time to get over whatever I was feeling, my yaay plunked me down in a chair on the patio and got me started chopping up all the meat. Pretty sure I could get a job in a butchers shop no prob after this experience! So covered in blood and guts I got a real firsthand look into the Tabaski festivities. The big meal and culmination of the day was late afternoon. I dug into that fresh meat like nobodys business, dressed up in my Tabaski boubou finery, and celebrated like a true Senegalese woman. [Looking at what I just wrote, this day sounds way more gross/ridiculous/melodramatic than it really was. In actuality my description is dead on, but during the moment it all seems completely natural; I guess that's part of the assimilation and adaptation to the culture that we are going through.]
Dec 22-25th: The holiday days...I will say that these were probably the hardest days I have had so far in Senegal. I had been feeling a little nostalgic for the Christmas season throughout the month, but it wasn't until right after Tabaski that I actually felt truly homesick. So in order to feel a little bit like I was back home I invited over the other girls from the program who were in Dakar, and we made "Christmas cookies", or snickerdoodles (this was one of the few things I could make with the ingredients here) Christmas Eve. That night I was able to go to the midnight Christmas service with the family of one of the girls and afterwards went to the soirée they hosted at their house. The service was probably the best reminder of how Christmas is spent in my family; the choir was in full glorious force, and oh yeah, they had a Christmas pageant! The party following the service is definitely one to remember; highlights include, eating an awesome (normal) meal at 2:30 am, staying up dancing until 6am, and singing Christmas carols to drums made of pots and pans while dancing in front of the entire Senegalese invites. Needless to say, after these crazy events I spent half of Christmas sleeping, and the other half making laax cause it sounded like the most Christmasy thing someone could make here.
Dec 26-28th: I decided to get in a quick visit to the petite cote before my sister came, so for the three days after Christmas I stayed in M'Bour with one of my friends. It was refreshing to get out of Dakar and see Senegal a little bit. M'Bour is a cute little town right on the ocean. My friend lived about a 5 minutes walk from the beach, so each day we took a walk along the coast. It was an interesting introduction to the role tourism plays in this country because along the beach there is a clear division of where the residential area stops and the fancy hotels begin. Living with the family was also another learning experience. The "house" was really more of a bunch of random buildings/rooms that enclosed a dirt courtyard and was shared by several aunts/uncles/cousins. Barely anyone spoke French so I was thrown right into using my Wolof...hmm, definitely need to work on my skills. They were all most definitely at a standard of living that was much more what I had expected of a third world country. Yet despite this semblance of poverty, everyone tried to cater to all of my needs. It was hard knowing the sacrifices people were making for me and knowing that I would only be impolite if I refused any part of their hospitality. My visit was short, yet it left many indelible marks in my memory. As I left to return to Dakar I will always remember how the entire family escorted me down the road, and my friend's mother took a bracelet off her wrist, put it on mine, thanked me for coming, and told me she hoped to see me again. Then the rest of the family did something that I have now come across several times; they held out their left hand to shake. In doing so I became a part of a powerful Senegalese custom, the expectation that you will see the other person again [in their lifetime].
Dec 29-Jan 17th: Katie's Visit. This deserves its own blog, so I'll save my travels with her for my next blog.
To sum up how I'm doing right now...I'm back on campus in Saint-Louis and have just turned a corner in my academic progress. I am taking one political science class now (African Regionalism), Wolof, and am starting to focus more seriously on my research. The director of my program in Madison just came for his yearly visit and I now have a more solid topic for my project. I will be spending the next 6 months comparing the efficiencies and inefficiencies of literacy programs formed by the government and NGOs. I'm pretty excited to discover Senegal in this light.
Hope everyone had a good holiday.
Jamm.
To be technical about it, my winter break was supposed to last from December 15th to January 4th. However, with the long anticipated visit of my sister, Katie, I took quite an extension and didn't officially get back to my classes until the 15th of January. Because so much has happened since my last blog I'll try to block it out. Perhaps I'll do some installations...
Dec 15-Dec 20th: My first week of break was spent completely relaxing with my family in Dakar. It felt so similar to being in the States; you look forward to getting back "home" where you eat well and have less obligations. I ended up spending most of my days playing with Abdoul Aziz and baby Salimata, and helping my yaay do the cooking. It was great being able to learn a little about Senegalese cooking, but by the end of the week I was feeling kind of exhausted by the expectation that I prepare dinner practically every night because my mom was too tired. The eve of Tabaski came with the arrival of my friend Phil Paiement and his girlfriend from Holland. I picked them up from the airport and brought them to their hotel, and invited them to my family's Tabaski celebration when they woke up the next morning. The one thing I unfortunately forgot to tell them in advance was that because of the holidays the city basically shuts down. Everyone was celebrating, which meant that most shops were closed, markets were empty of vendors, and taxis became a rare commodity.
Dec 21st: TABASKI. So first off this holiday is similar to Korité in that the actual day is dependent upon the moon and some thing in the Koran (I say this in all seriousness because even most Muslims don't really get how the day is chosen, they only find out the day because their imam or marabou will tell them). It is interesting how the day is celebrated because there are debates each year as to why the mosque doesn't just choose one day and stick to it. For example, this year Mecca celebrated Tabaski on the 19th, then religious leaders in Senegal debated over whether Senegal could then celebrate it two days later, or if they had to do it the 20th...Needless to say, everyone gets confused and just picks the day that works for them. However, my Tabaski went rather smoothly. I got up around 9am and immediately was thrown into the process of preparing the meal. At about 10am, Douds along with Dass and 2 other helpers got the sheep ready for the slaughter. As is tradition for Tabaski, the head of the house does the actual killing of the sheep. Because my papa was on the Mecca pilgrimage this year, Douds cut the two sheeps' necks. I had thought I would be totally fine with watching everything, but I must say I was a little more than wide-eyed during the entire process. After what seemed to be enough time to get over whatever I was feeling, my yaay plunked me down in a chair on the patio and got me started chopping up all the meat. Pretty sure I could get a job in a butchers shop no prob after this experience! So covered in blood and guts I got a real firsthand look into the Tabaski festivities. The big meal and culmination of the day was late afternoon. I dug into that fresh meat like nobodys business, dressed up in my Tabaski boubou finery, and celebrated like a true Senegalese woman. [Looking at what I just wrote, this day sounds way more gross/ridiculous/melodramatic than it really was. In actuality my description is dead on, but during the moment it all seems completely natural; I guess that's part of the assimilation and adaptation to the culture that we are going through.]
Dec 22-25th: The holiday days...I will say that these were probably the hardest days I have had so far in Senegal. I had been feeling a little nostalgic for the Christmas season throughout the month, but it wasn't until right after Tabaski that I actually felt truly homesick. So in order to feel a little bit like I was back home I invited over the other girls from the program who were in Dakar, and we made "Christmas cookies", or snickerdoodles (this was one of the few things I could make with the ingredients here) Christmas Eve. That night I was able to go to the midnight Christmas service with the family of one of the girls and afterwards went to the soirée they hosted at their house. The service was probably the best reminder of how Christmas is spent in my family; the choir was in full glorious force, and oh yeah, they had a Christmas pageant! The party following the service is definitely one to remember; highlights include, eating an awesome (normal) meal at 2:30 am, staying up dancing until 6am, and singing Christmas carols to drums made of pots and pans while dancing in front of the entire Senegalese invites. Needless to say, after these crazy events I spent half of Christmas sleeping, and the other half making laax cause it sounded like the most Christmasy thing someone could make here.
Dec 26-28th: I decided to get in a quick visit to the petite cote before my sister came, so for the three days after Christmas I stayed in M'Bour with one of my friends. It was refreshing to get out of Dakar and see Senegal a little bit. M'Bour is a cute little town right on the ocean. My friend lived about a 5 minutes walk from the beach, so each day we took a walk along the coast. It was an interesting introduction to the role tourism plays in this country because along the beach there is a clear division of where the residential area stops and the fancy hotels begin. Living with the family was also another learning experience. The "house" was really more of a bunch of random buildings/rooms that enclosed a dirt courtyard and was shared by several aunts/uncles/cousins. Barely anyone spoke French so I was thrown right into using my Wolof...hmm, definitely need to work on my skills. They were all most definitely at a standard of living that was much more what I had expected of a third world country. Yet despite this semblance of poverty, everyone tried to cater to all of my needs. It was hard knowing the sacrifices people were making for me and knowing that I would only be impolite if I refused any part of their hospitality. My visit was short, yet it left many indelible marks in my memory. As I left to return to Dakar I will always remember how the entire family escorted me down the road, and my friend's mother took a bracelet off her wrist, put it on mine, thanked me for coming, and told me she hoped to see me again. Then the rest of the family did something that I have now come across several times; they held out their left hand to shake. In doing so I became a part of a powerful Senegalese custom, the expectation that you will see the other person again [in their lifetime].
Dec 29-Jan 17th: Katie's Visit. This deserves its own blog, so I'll save my travels with her for my next blog.
To sum up how I'm doing right now...I'm back on campus in Saint-Louis and have just turned a corner in my academic progress. I am taking one political science class now (African Regionalism), Wolof, and am starting to focus more seriously on my research. The director of my program in Madison just came for his yearly visit and I now have a more solid topic for my project. I will be spending the next 6 months comparing the efficiencies and inefficiencies of literacy programs formed by the government and NGOs. I'm pretty excited to discover Senegal in this light.
Hope everyone had a good holiday.
Jamm.
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