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On second thought, the dump might not be that outdated if the cats are finding food there.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.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
"...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?"
"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.
"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.
"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.
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.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Teranga!
"Vous soyez la bienvenue!"
That's the phrase I hear everywhere I go in this country. It means: "You are welcome here!"
In Sénégal they pride themselves on "teranga," the Wolof word which means "welcome."
Today I went to Soumbedioune, a fish market on Dakar's coast nearby where I live. My Sénégalese friend Mahmound, who I met last summer in Spain, has insisted a thousand times that I be sure to go there, so I figured it was a good place to spend my first free Saturday in the country.
When my friend Erin and I arrived there, I was impressed by the massive number of handmade and hand-painted boats. It wasn't the bustling fish market that I imagined, though. It was more a laid-back area ruled by fishermen. As we walked around silently, I wondered if maybe we could go on one of the fishing boats.
As we were walking, a man came up to us and introduced himself as Waly the fish salesman. We started talking and, a few minutes into the conversation, I told him I wanted to go on a boat.
"Hold on," he told me in French, "let me just ask a friend."
15 minutes later we were boarding a fishing boat and heading out into the Atlantic with a fisherman named Pap. My friend and I each gave 5,000CFA (almost US$10) to help with gas, and we spent the next 2 hours taking turns driving the boat around, taking beautiful photos, and swimming in our underwear.
When we returned to land, Waly took us aside and grilled us 4 flying fish (poisson voleur) which we ate together, piping hot, with our hands.
Then he took us to a store and bought us bags of water (you bite a corner off and suck it out of the bag) before directing us to his home.
Now, I'm not a fool. I know better than to go home with someone I've only known for a few hours.
But things are different here. People here are really, truly friendly.
Waly took us home not to try and make a move on us, but to meet his 4 young children and wife. And while the kids bounced around on the couch showing us a one-armed naked doll, his wife prepared us a plate of yassa (spicy rice and fish) to share.
Waly wanted to share his home and family-- to welcome us to his country and show us the meaning of Sénégalese "teranga." A boat ride, fresh grilled fish, water, yassa, and an introduction to his entire family... strangers have done nice things for me all over the world, but Waly certainly tops the list!
And then, when we finally parted ways, we promised we would head back tomorrow so he could give us a walking tour of the area.
That's the phrase I hear everywhere I go in this country. It means: "You are welcome here!"
In Sénégal they pride themselves on "teranga," the Wolof word which means "welcome."
Today I went to Soumbedioune, a fish market on Dakar's coast nearby where I live. My Sénégalese friend Mahmound, who I met last summer in Spain, has insisted a thousand times that I be sure to go there, so I figured it was a good place to spend my first free Saturday in the country.When my friend Erin and I arrived there, I was impressed by the massive number of handmade and hand-painted boats. It wasn't the bustling fish market that I imagined, though. It was more a laid-back area ruled by fishermen. As we walked around silently, I wondered if maybe we could go on one of the fishing boats.
As we were walking, a man came up to us and introduced himself as Waly the fish salesman. We started talking and, a few minutes into the conversation, I told him I wanted to go on a boat.
"Hold on," he told me in French, "let me just ask a friend."
15 minutes later we were boarding a fishing boat and heading out into the Atlantic with a fisherman named Pap. My friend and I each gave 5,000CFA (almost US$10) to help with gas, and we spent the next 2 hours taking turns driving the boat around, taking beautiful photos, and swimming in our underwear.
When we returned to land, Waly took us aside and grilled us 4 flying fish (poisson voleur) which we ate together, piping hot, with our hands.
Then he took us to a store and bought us bags of water (you bite a corner off and suck it out of the bag) before directing us to his home.
Now, I'm not a fool. I know better than to go home with someone I've only known for a few hours.
But things are different here. People here are really, truly friendly.
Waly took us home not to try and make a move on us, but to meet his 4 young children and wife. And while the kids bounced around on the couch showing us a one-armed naked doll, his wife prepared us a plate of yassa (spicy rice and fish) to share.
Waly wanted to share his home and family-- to welcome us to his country and show us the meaning of Sénégalese "teranga." A boat ride, fresh grilled fish, water, yassa, and an introduction to his entire family... strangers have done nice things for me all over the world, but Waly certainly tops the list!
And then, when we finally parted ways, we promised we would head back tomorrow so he could give us a walking tour of the area.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Food barriers
Something very particular to Sénégal is the way people eat.
Traditionally, food is placed on a large plate on the ground and eaten with the right hand. (The left hand is considered dirty - used for wiping in the bathroom - so you wouldn't eat with it.)
"Did you want a fork?"
"No," I responded, "I can use my hand."
A very interesting dynamic comes up when you are eating in this manner: sharing.
Although it is easy to understand that you should eat the food in front of you and not reach across the plate to steal food from another's section of the shared plate, what happens if you wants more chicken and there isn't any near you?
This is when it becomes your family's job to make sure you are eating well. My brothers and sisters will often break some chicken into bite sized pieces with their fingers and then drop off a piece or two into my section, sort of a silent way to say:
"Here, I found a nice tender piece. It's for you."
As you begin to finish the dish, you start to see lines of food build up between you and your neighbor: the parts that you don't dare touch because you don't want to be in their sections and they don't touch for the same reason.
Last night, I noticed these lines of food on both the left and right sections of my area. In contrast, I noticed that those lines did not exist between the sections of other members of the family.
It was like food barriers: separating me and them.
Traditionally, food is placed on a large plate on the ground and eaten with the right hand. (The left hand is considered dirty - used for wiping in the bathroom - so you wouldn't eat with it.)
While many families in Dakar have modernized and now use forks or eat from separate dishes, many have not. Others, like mine, are a bit half and half.
In my family, 5 of the 7 people use their hands. Only the two older boys (19 and 25) prefer forks.
We all eat around the common plate on the ground, elevated a bit because we sit on short stools in a circle around the food. Everyone's eyes are directed towards the food in the center, and you have to bend over a bit to get a bite.
It's a bit meditative: we eat mostly in silence (or so it seems, since I don't understand Wolof yet). Between bites our greasy hands or forks hang limply over the plate.
When I first arrived they offered me the fork. I took this as a sign of respect- their way of recognizing that I am from a different culture and may well be disgusted by eating with my hand. Then, yesterday, my mother gave me the choice:
In my family, 5 of the 7 people use their hands. Only the two older boys (19 and 25) prefer forks.
We all eat around the common plate on the ground, elevated a bit because we sit on short stools in a circle around the food. Everyone's eyes are directed towards the food in the center, and you have to bend over a bit to get a bite.
It's a bit meditative: we eat mostly in silence (or so it seems, since I don't understand Wolof yet). Between bites our greasy hands or forks hang limply over the plate.
When I first arrived they offered me the fork. I took this as a sign of respect- their way of recognizing that I am from a different culture and may well be disgusted by eating with my hand. Then, yesterday, my mother gave me the choice:
"Did you want a fork?"
"No," I responded, "I can use my hand."
A very interesting dynamic comes up when you are eating in this manner: sharing.
Although it is easy to understand that you should eat the food in front of you and not reach across the plate to steal food from another's section of the shared plate, what happens if you wants more chicken and there isn't any near you?
This is when it becomes your family's job to make sure you are eating well. My brothers and sisters will often break some chicken into bite sized pieces with their fingers and then drop off a piece or two into my section, sort of a silent way to say:
"Here, I found a nice tender piece. It's for you."
As you begin to finish the dish, you start to see lines of food build up between you and your neighbor: the parts that you don't dare touch because you don't want to be in their sections and they don't touch for the same reason.
Last night, I noticed these lines of food on both the left and right sections of my area. In contrast, I noticed that those lines did not exist between the sections of other members of the family.
It was like food barriers: separating me and them.
So, looking at the situation perhaps a bit symbolically, I grabbed some bread and soaked up a mess of onion sauce. Then, I ate the food barriers between us.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
My grandpa was polygamist
One interesting thing about Sénégal is the tradition of polygamy. Yes, polygamy actually does exist!
When I asked my host mom about it, she told me:
"Well, I come from a polygamist family, and it worked just fine for us!"
It turns out grandpa had 4 wives. The woman I know as grandma (or yaay in Wolof) is wife #2.
With a lot of openness and sharing, they made it work out. It was one big happy family, and she considered her half brothers and sisters as true siblings who all shared 4 mothers.
My mom conceded that for many families it seems to cause a lot of problems. But that could be because they get into it for the wrong reason.
Wrong reasons might include:
1. Finding another "better" woman and not wanting to divorce the first
2. Taking another wife as a show of wealth
3. Umm, etc.
"One man I knew," she told me, "decided to take a second wife because he told me that he just need to make love all the time. He still loved and had a great relationship with his first wife," she continued, "he just needed another woman to be completely satisfied."
Apparently it worked out for him, too.
When I asked my host mom about it, she told me:
"Well, I come from a polygamist family, and it worked just fine for us!"
It turns out grandpa had 4 wives. The woman I know as grandma (or yaay in Wolof) is wife #2.
With a lot of openness and sharing, they made it work out. It was one big happy family, and she considered her half brothers and sisters as true siblings who all shared 4 mothers.
My mom conceded that for many families it seems to cause a lot of problems. But that could be because they get into it for the wrong reason.
Wrong reasons might include:
1. Finding another "better" woman and not wanting to divorce the first
2. Taking another wife as a show of wealth
3. Umm, etc.
"One man I knew," she told me, "decided to take a second wife because he told me that he just need to make love all the time. He still loved and had a great relationship with his first wife," she continued, "he just needed another woman to be completely satisfied."
Apparently it worked out for him, too.
Pourquoi vous êtes au Sénégal?
I took the French language exam today, and when I finished the written part and went to talk with the school's director to be evaluated orally, this was the question I faced:
Pourquoi vous êtes au Sénégal? Vous êtes française!!
I know that my French isn't perfect. I still have a TON to learn. But when my French accent and fluidity tricks the University professors into thinking I am French and I find that the written part of the exam has several errors in it... well, I worry how much my French language is really going to improve while I am here.
That being said, Sénégal has a lot to offer beyond French.
Yesterday we went to Gorée Island to see the old slave house where slaves were shipped out to Europe and the Americas in the 1800's.
Then, I went on an adventure of my own:
I went to buy shoes.
Shoes. As in, it's so hot here that I could no longer deal without some open-toed flip-flops. So I went to buy them in Sandaga Market, a busy part of downtown.
The second I stepped out of the taxi I was hailed by screams of:
"How are you?? Don't you remember me from last time? How have you been? What are you looking for?"
Looking around I saw a young male smiling and waving at me who I had never seen before in my life.
"Don't you remember me?"
Not only did I not remember him... I'd never been to Sandaga Market before in my life, and I had only met about 20 people in my 4 days in Senegal. Obviously, this was a tourist trap.
I looked away and walked away, but when he persisted I turned and asked him to stop. Still, he persisted even more. When I started looking at shoes he told the shoe salesman I was his friend and to give me a good price. The price I was offered? 6500F CFA.
6500F CFA is about 13 dollars US. For a pair of cheap flip-flops in a country like Sénégal, you would have to be a fool to pay that much. My advisor at the university informed me that a pair of shoes should be between 2000 and 2500F CFA, about 4 to 5 USD. So I bargained.
After walking away 3 times and being told several times that I was already getting quite the "deal," I paid 2500, the upper end of what I was told to expect.
As I walked through the rest of the market ignoring the screams and hisses directed at me (and, of course, the money associated with my toubab or foreign appearance), I started thinking I probably still got ripped off by Senegalese standards.
Pourquoi vous êtes au Sénégal? Vous êtes française!!
Translation: Why did you come to Sénégal? You're French!
While this is undoubtedly a great compliment and means that I probably won't have to waste my time with a French language course, it also greatly concerns me. The professor of the University is not the first person to insist that I am French- my host brother made the same mistake.
While this is undoubtedly a great compliment and means that I probably won't have to waste my time with a French language course, it also greatly concerns me. The professor of the University is not the first person to insist that I am French- my host brother made the same mistake.
I know that my French isn't perfect. I still have a TON to learn. But when my French accent and fluidity tricks the University professors into thinking I am French and I find that the written part of the exam has several errors in it... well, I worry how much my French language is really going to improve while I am here.
That being said, Sénégal has a lot to offer beyond French.
Yesterday we went to Gorée Island to see the old slave house where slaves were shipped out to Europe and the Americas in the 1800's.
Then, I went on an adventure of my own:
I went to buy shoes.
Shoes. As in, it's so hot here that I could no longer deal without some open-toed flip-flops. So I went to buy them in Sandaga Market, a busy part of downtown.The second I stepped out of the taxi I was hailed by screams of:
"How are you?? Don't you remember me from last time? How have you been? What are you looking for?"
Looking around I saw a young male smiling and waving at me who I had never seen before in my life.
"Don't you remember me?"
Not only did I not remember him... I'd never been to Sandaga Market before in my life, and I had only met about 20 people in my 4 days in Senegal. Obviously, this was a tourist trap.
I looked away and walked away, but when he persisted I turned and asked him to stop. Still, he persisted even more. When I started looking at shoes he told the shoe salesman I was his friend and to give me a good price. The price I was offered? 6500F CFA.
6500F CFA is about 13 dollars US. For a pair of cheap flip-flops in a country like Sénégal, you would have to be a fool to pay that much. My advisor at the university informed me that a pair of shoes should be between 2000 and 2500F CFA, about 4 to 5 USD. So I bargained.
After walking away 3 times and being told several times that I was already getting quite the "deal," I paid 2500, the upper end of what I was told to expect.
As I walked through the rest of the market ignoring the screams and hisses directed at me (and, of course, the money associated with my toubab or foreign appearance), I started thinking I probably still got ripped off by Senegalese standards.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Touba
There is a big Muslim festival in Touba this week called the "Grand Magal de Touba." Touba is about 4 hours from Dakar by car, and people from all over the city head there to celebrate the exile of Cheik Amadou Bamba Mbacké, the founder of the Mouride brotherhood (associated with Sufiism in Sénégal).
Tonight some of the "baye falls" or "baay faals" (a branch of the Mourides, the people who go to Touba) came to visit my family and pray before heading out. They all had rastas (or dreadlocks) - and some of the most impressive ones I have ever seen. While they generally keep them wound up and under a hat so you can't tell, one man had rastas all the way to the ground!
They gave me a giant patchwork t-shirt to wear, gave me a mouride name ("Mamsé") and insisted that I come with them to Touba.
I laughed at the invitation and went along with it for a bit, only later to explain that I couldn't because of classes. When the grandmother started to lecture, inisisting that I could not go, I replied with an "I know, I know" attitude.
But in reality...
I would love to go someday.
Earlier today I took a trip around Dakar with the university to check out the city. I took lots of nice photos and feel content to say that I am living in a truly beautiful place.
My cousin Aicha who is living with us is by far my best Senegalese friend at the moment. She is 12 years old but she loves talking! Whether she is offering me (or forcing me) to have a bite of whatever she is eating or asking my advice on how best to dress the supermodels on a computer game, she never fails to give me something to do. Tomorrow we have a date set to paint our fingernails with the one bottle of fingernail polish I brought with me... skintone.
If I get a chance to go by a store, I can think of a lot more exciting colors she would love.
Tonight some of the "baye falls" or "baay faals" (a branch of the Mourides, the people who go to Touba) came to visit my family and pray before heading out. They all had rastas (or dreadlocks) - and some of the most impressive ones I have ever seen. While they generally keep them wound up and under a hat so you can't tell, one man had rastas all the way to the ground!
They gave me a giant patchwork t-shirt to wear, gave me a mouride name ("Mamsé") and insisted that I come with them to Touba.
I laughed at the invitation and went along with it for a bit, only later to explain that I couldn't because of classes. When the grandmother started to lecture, inisisting that I could not go, I replied with an "I know, I know" attitude.
But in reality...
I would love to go someday.
Earlier today I took a trip around Dakar with the university to check out the city. I took lots of nice photos and feel content to say that I am living in a truly beautiful place.
My cousin Aicha who is living with us is by far my best Senegalese friend at the moment. She is 12 years old but she loves talking! Whether she is offering me (or forcing me) to have a bite of whatever she is eating or asking my advice on how best to dress the supermodels on a computer game, she never fails to give me something to do. Tomorrow we have a date set to paint our fingernails with the one bottle of fingernail polish I brought with me... skintone.
If I get a chance to go by a store, I can think of a lot more exciting colors she would love.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Bienvenue à Dakar!
I arrived to Dakar late Friday night just in time to meet with a University employee, catch a taxi to a local hotel, wake up the next morning for a quick orientation, and move in with my new host family.
My family, la famille Mbaye, is Muslim and consists of a grandmother, mother, 3 children, and a cousin (who is here until her mother returns from Haiti in March). However, the family seems much larger since there are always extended relatives over at the house. Everybody speaks French to me and says that I have a very strong French accent (something my friends in France would never agree with). Between friends and family members though, I hear a lot of Wolof. While I don't need Wolof to communicate with anyone, I'm told I will get better prices on things when I learn it... and also, it would be nice to know what others are saying! My first Wolof class is Wednesday.
I am about a 5 minute walk from the beach and 3 houses down from another American girl studying here through the same program.
In general, the streets are mostly made of dirt. The buildings tend to be very drab, light colors and almost nothing is marked. It's as though everything is a house in the entire city! Things that are marked are marked with such tiny little signs that it's not until you are right in front that you read the sign and say... "Oh. I guess that's a bank?"
What the streets lack in color, though, the people make up for. Most of the women wear beautiful long skirts or dresses in crazy and colorful patterns. Their hair is twisted into tiny, braided designs and sometimes covered with fabric wound up to form what I can only describe as a colorful turban. I've seen men carrying impossibly large bundles on the tops of their heads and many children running around in the streets.
Eating (for big meals) is done with the right hand only and out of one big, shared dish. That means rice must be squished into balls that can be popped in the mouth, fish must be deboned with the one hand, and beef must be cut with the fingers. Stop and think about the for a minute. Ripping apart a steak is hard enough with two hands and no silverware. Could you do it with just one hand???
The house is fairly large (as it must be to accomodate a big family). Although poverty is evident throughout the city, most houses seem fairly large. I do, however, share a room with my 16-year-old host sister, Aida. Also, the house is not and never was set up for hot water. Since they have hosted American students before, they were quick to offer to heat up water over a stove for me every morning so I can shower with that. This seems like a lot of trouble to me though, and in a country as hot as Senegal, I decided I could offer to take cold showers without a problem. The way I figure it, I'm just glad the family is providing toilet paper! I was told most family use water to wash/wipe with.
Tomorrow I get a city tour and will try to take some photos. Until then...
Bisibu ag jàmm! (Good night, until tomorrow - in Wolof)
Maija
My family, la famille Mbaye, is Muslim and consists of a grandmother, mother, 3 children, and a cousin (who is here until her mother returns from Haiti in March). However, the family seems much larger since there are always extended relatives over at the house. Everybody speaks French to me and says that I have a very strong French accent (something my friends in France would never agree with). Between friends and family members though, I hear a lot of Wolof. While I don't need Wolof to communicate with anyone, I'm told I will get better prices on things when I learn it... and also, it would be nice to know what others are saying! My first Wolof class is Wednesday.
I am about a 5 minute walk from the beach and 3 houses down from another American girl studying here through the same program.
In general, the streets are mostly made of dirt. The buildings tend to be very drab, light colors and almost nothing is marked. It's as though everything is a house in the entire city! Things that are marked are marked with such tiny little signs that it's not until you are right in front that you read the sign and say... "Oh. I guess that's a bank?"
What the streets lack in color, though, the people make up for. Most of the women wear beautiful long skirts or dresses in crazy and colorful patterns. Their hair is twisted into tiny, braided designs and sometimes covered with fabric wound up to form what I can only describe as a colorful turban. I've seen men carrying impossibly large bundles on the tops of their heads and many children running around in the streets.
Eating (for big meals) is done with the right hand only and out of one big, shared dish. That means rice must be squished into balls that can be popped in the mouth, fish must be deboned with the one hand, and beef must be cut with the fingers. Stop and think about the for a minute. Ripping apart a steak is hard enough with two hands and no silverware. Could you do it with just one hand???
The house is fairly large (as it must be to accomodate a big family). Although poverty is evident throughout the city, most houses seem fairly large. I do, however, share a room with my 16-year-old host sister, Aida. Also, the house is not and never was set up for hot water. Since they have hosted American students before, they were quick to offer to heat up water over a stove for me every morning so I can shower with that. This seems like a lot of trouble to me though, and in a country as hot as Senegal, I decided I could offer to take cold showers without a problem. The way I figure it, I'm just glad the family is providing toilet paper! I was told most family use water to wash/wipe with.
Tomorrow I get a city tour and will try to take some photos. Until then...
Bisibu ag jàmm! (Good night, until tomorrow - in Wolof)
Maija
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