Maija's blog has moved!

Maija's blog has moved!

Check out my new blog at travelinglang.us for all my newest work.

Senegalese Wedding

This is a video I made from a Senegalese wedding I attended in Dakar. The bride is a 19-yr old girl named Maya (in purple). Her brother, Ilyman, is the one showing me around at the beginning of the film. I am the one in green and you can hear the people calling me "Mamsey" which is my Senegalese name.

Success!

I understood part of the dinner conversation and was able to add this comment:

Mës nga ko dem?
(Have you ever been there?)

To which my host mom responded:

Waaw... Degg nga Wolof!
(Yes... and you speak Wolof!)

A surprised and happy look on her face, she was accusing me of speaking the Wolof language! It was only a bit embarrassing to have it called out like that in front of the whole family (9 of us gathered around one common plate, eating) - but I was proud!

Yes, maman, I speak Wolof now ^^

Illicit Nail Polish

My little host sister Aicha loves to draw.
She doodles, she sketches, and, above all, she really love nail polish.

This is a problem because nail polish not approved of by the Koran. At least according to her Koran teacher.

The day after my 12-year-old sister Aicha asked to paint her nails with me, her Koran teacher informed her that nail polish is bad-- especially on the toes. Apparently it is expressly forbidden on the toes and not as bad (though certainly not approved of either) on the hands. So that night, Aicha went in the shower and scrubbed the brand new polish off her toes with a rough sponge.


Later, I found two pictures she drew of decorated hands (with nail polish). 
The top of the first one says (in French):

"Nails not well accepted by the Muslim religion" 

and the top of the second one says:

"Even if certain people don't like it, I love it!"

The best solution to being able to decorate her body without getting into trouble is to use henna.

Henna is a natural plant, with color varying between yellow-orange-dark orange (practically black). There aren't any other color choices, and the color is dependent on the quality of the henna, the best henna dying the darkest.

Aicha told me (though no other sources confirm this and my Professor for the History of Islam claimed it was outright incorrect) that if you die with henna on your hands then you will go straight to heaven. 
Which is why older women like my grandmother tend to do henna a lot... they know they might die soon.

When I asked Aicha why she didn't do henna more often, she told me that young people don't really like it because it's not a very pretty color. She would probably do it more often if the henna was pink! But the only way to get pink is to use nail polish, and, of course, she can't do that.


Aicha also likes to design clothing - both on paper and with fabrics scraps that she sews together for Maymona, a once stuffed dog now converted into ... well I guess she's a BIT more humanlike?

Maymona, by the way, is in love with Mahmoud. Mahmoud is my miniature stuffed black cat, about the size of a beanie baby. So last time the two of them got together, they made traditional Senegalese outfits.

But something else was worrying me about Aicha: she always draws on lined paper.

As the daughter of two artists, I think it's important for kids to draw and be encouraged to express themselves through art. To do so, it's important to have the right materials. Lined paper and an everyday yellow pencil #2 doesn't cut it. So I decided to fix the problem.

I went to the bookstore, bought a pad of big, white drawing paper, and a couple of graded hardness pencils, gave them to her and, to make it less of a gift (we were told that our host families would frown upon gifts if we didn't approve them with our host mothers first), I asked her to make a background for my blog.

Conclusion: a great background for my bog, and a happy little sister!

To give or not to give...

One of the first lessons you learn as a foreigner abroad is never to give to the beggars.
It has nothing to do with kindness, but rather, if you give once they will expect you to give again and again until you won't have any money left.
At least, this is what I was told.

Then, after seeing one after another of homeless children (or crippled, or sick, or elderly, or mothers with babies), I started to wonder if they are truly needy or are just living off donations:
Does a twisted leg really keep him from working? Surely he could still sell peanuts like the man on the next street corner... right????????
He's probably really using all his money on drugs. RIGHT?????
I'm never really sure.

It's issue that you come across in every country, but it's a bit more intense in those with lower GDPs. Since Senegal's GDP per capita is $1,900 (compared to the US's whopping $48,100), I know I'm in a fairly decent position to give to others. I mean, let's face it:

• I'm a poor student
• I worry about money
• I can't afford everything I want and need
• I'm looking at loans and debt

...but even so:

• I have enough to eat
• I have a bed to sleep in every night
• I obviously paid for a ticket to come all the way over here to study
• And so I study; therefore, I am educated
• I can afford to buy myself the occassional luxury item: a music CD, a chocolate bar, postcards for back home, souvenirs...

So WHY wouldn't I give a dollar to a poor, begging, presumably homeless child?

What's a dollar to me?
At home, I might accidently leave a dollar in my jeans pocket and wash it.
I might waste a dollar on gumballs for myself and three friends.
I might throw an extra dollar on the table for a restaurant tip.
I've been known to spend an extra dollar to try out a new brand of shampoo.

A dollar, to ME, is NOT THAT BIG OF A DEAL. I do watch my money, but if a pickpocket came by and stole $1.00 USD, I would definitely be more annoyed, or even amused, than hurt.

To them?
A dollar is dinner. A dollar could be lunch. A dollar could be the one meal they get to eat all day.

Even so, even so. If you give a mouse a cookie...
you'll have to give the next time...
and the next time...
and the next time...
and at some point, those dollars will add up.

But does that mean I shouldn't ever give money to anyone?

The other day, on my walk to school, a woman stopped and greeted me. She was well-dressed and seemed kind. Then, pointing down at a foot wrapped in bloody bandages, she asked if I could help pay for her transportation home.

My response: "Non, pardon. Amuma xaalis. La prochaine fois!"
"No, sorry. I don't have any money. Maybe next time!"

And then, as I walked away, I got to thinking.
What's wrong with me?
What if that poor woman was really hurt? What if she really needed a ride? What if a stranger's $1.00 USD contribution could mean the difference between proper healing or a painful hobble home? And what would that dollar have cost me?

But then the doubt:
It could have been a trick. Maybe she didn't really need the money. She probably targeted me because I'm a "toubab" (white person) and therefore assumed to be rich.

How can I know who to help? How can I know if a person is honest, if my dollar can truly make a difference? Do I really care if I'm targeted for being a toubab? I mean, I AM from a richer country, maybe she's not targeting me to be mean but rather because I'm more likely to be able to help? For the moment, I still don't have any answers.

Looking around, though, I realized I was just outside of a hospital.
In all probability, her request was honest.

Outside Dakar

So this is how Sénégalese hospitality (teranga) works:
While traveling through Spain last summer, I met a young man from Sénégal and I told him I was going to his country. His immediately family is not in Dakar, but he does have a niece who lives nearby. So he told his niece I was heading over there and gave me her number. Then today, I took an hour long US 30¢ bus ride outside of the city to visit.

Their house, located in Sicap Mbao, the outskirts of Dakar, is in a beautiful place.
What appears to have once been a garbage dump is just around the corner, and as we walked across it on our way to the house I noticed half a dozen mangey cats searching around in the colorful heaps of waste.
On second thought, the dump might not be that outdated if the cats are finding food there.

When I arrived I was greeted by a house full of 10 or more people, at least half of which were children in various stages of undress. Flies dominated the air, landing on food, arms, and the corners of the childrens' eyes.
They directed me to go inside to the living room where everyone sat watching soccer on television. Soccer fans here must be truly devoted-- the tv image was so poor that every player was displayed double on the screen. It was a bit difficult to see what going on, but we watched together as Côte d'Ivoire and Soudan fought it out.

Mami, the 25 year old niece I was there to visit, sat breastfeeding her child in front of the whole family. This is a sight you don't see very often in the US, despite feminist attempts to insist that breastfeeding should be allowed in public. I was amazed that not even the teenage boys seemed to notice.

I was extremely impressed by the welcome I received. Even though these people had little to nothing (at least in my undeniably US shaped world vision, which naturally tends to judge based on material possessions), they shared everything with me. I hadn't asked to be there for lunch, but they automatically included me.

We ate rice and fish, a typical Senegalese dish. The flies buzzed overhead as we ate and occassionally landed on the food only to be waved away. The small children grabbed awkardly at the rice with their little hands, probably adding just as much saliva to the shared dish as they managed to fit rice into their mouths.

In another context, I would be worried about getting sick from the many obvious unsanitary factors. Instead, I felt at peace.

Children in Senegal can start eating with the adults at a much earlier age than in the US because there is no requirement that they learn to use silverware-- everyone can use their hands. And after all, when was the last time a little baby spit hurt anyone?

Yes, the flies on our food had probably also landed on the garbage dump outside. But what of it? This family had obviously gained a certain immunity to any sickness around. It might be a dangerous thought, but with their generosity I would have rather spent the evening vomiting than to tell these kind people their food wasn't good enough for me. And luckily for me, I didn't have to get sick.

"...so you can't see each other the first time you sleep together"

"You know, chew rye! You use it when you get married so you can't see each other the first time you sleep together!"
"Wait, what? Seriously?"

Last night around 9pm an acquaintance from my neighborhood called to see if I wanted to hang out with him. Since most everyone in my household goes to sleep by around 9:30, a time that is way too early for me, I agreed.

He took me around the neighborhood, walking into different households unannounced to greet people briefly before moving onto a new house.

In a poor country where petty theft is not uncommon and my host family insists I put everything (from laptop to hairbrush) under lock and key, it seems a bit weird that nobody actually locks their front door. And what's more, nobody thinks it odd to have strangers walk in the house, unannounced and uninvited, after dark.

"Chew rye! Come on I'll show you."

"Umm... I like being able to see, thank you," I told him, a bit afraid this would turn into a hook up attempt and not entirely sure what kind of drug would take away my vision.

"Follow me," he said, leading me into yet another unlocked house. My fears mounted as we climbed the stairs and he opened a door.

"This is my room," he told me proudly.

Ahhh so we were in his house now. I lingered outside the door, not wanting to go in. After a few minutes of nodding as he pointed out the pictures of different lutteurs (or fighters) that lined his walls, he led me on to a different room where two women laid sprawled out on a bare mattress in front of a large bowl of burning charcoal. My friend introduced them as his sisters before explaining something to them in Wolof.

They giggled.

"So you don't know what chew rye is?" they asked. I wasn't sure I was ready to find out, but they were already stuffing thin, straw-colored needles into the charcoal and wafting the smoke towards me.
"Doesn't that smell good?" they crooned. I nodded, not entirely sure of my feelings. It smelled a bit pleasant but also a bit like burning plastic. The amount smoke produced was impressive.

... I sat on the couch and braced myself for what might come, but nothing ever did.
"How about this one? How does this one smell?"
The girls pushed something else into the charcoal, producing more smoke and another scent. This time it smelled pretty good. In fact, it smelled just like...

...incense! It clicked. Chew-rye isn't a drug at all, it's the Wolof word for incense! The reason it prevents newly weds from seeing each other is because of the smoke-- a fog machine effect.

I relaxed.

Then they were pulling out beaded belts of every color made from cheap plastic beads and thin elastic string.

"You put these around your waist and dance for your husband in the smoke," they told me, miming a bit of dance. "They're like body decorations. You can even wear them when you go out during the day, but you have to tuck them under your skirt or pull your shirt down over them like this." They showed me.

"But why would you want to hide such beautiful decorations?" I asked, wondering in reality why anyone would want to wear cheap plastic beads around their waists.

"Because," they informed me, "it's a private thing! Guys get really turned on when they smell the chew rye or see these beads, so you wouldn't want to wear them in public. They're just for your husband." They giggled.

Well, to each his own.