I woke up later than usual today- around 9:30. It's my Sunday.
It's difficult to sleep late because of the loud street noises and children yelling. My host mother went to the the Casamance Region in southern Senegal for her older brother's funeral- he died peacefully in his sleep two nights ago. I have been trying to figure out how to accomplish for myself all that she was doing for me. For example: Where does water come from? The faucets and toilets in the bathrooms only work occassionally (I haven't figured out any pattern or reason). Where do I get the water that I must heat on the propane stove for my morning bathing? Where does the water come from to flush the toilet? The only people in the house right now only speak Wolof, so I had to gensture and watch to learn that you must go outside to the one working faucet to fill a bucket. Voila.
Although I am craving my morning coffee, my small one-cup water boiler seems to have broken on me. I'm not sure how to ask for hot water in Wolof; I guess I will do without. I went across the street to receive my morning bagette that my family has pre-paid for, came back to my room and ate it with some Vache qui Rit cheese and some water. This is my breakfast until we eat our traditional Cee Bu Jen at 3:00 for lunch - Rice and Fish. It is truly delicious!
This past week was an intro to the next 3.5 months that I have before me. I have class Monday through Thursday, a three day weekend during which I plan to take many trips. Tomorrow I'm going to the Goree Island/ le Maison des Ecleves/ The Slave Warehouse. It's close to here, but requires a ferry ride. Most people believe that this was the island and building where 1000's of Africans were stored and then transported to the Americas and Europe for slavery. It will be intense.
Next weekend I plan on visiting Le Lac Rose- The pink Lake. A lake about 2 hours from here where the natural salt and mineral deposits subservice have turned the water bright pink. The locals harvest the crusty bottom of the lake- which is all salt- to sell for it's beauty and thereaputic properties.
The diet of bread starch and rice starch with very little protein veggie leaves me feeling a little fatigued. I'm trying to eat more cheese and yogurt, the only available, easy sources of protein that I have found. Oh wait, there's Peanuts. They grow and eat a lot of peanuts here. Sweet peanuts, salty peanuts, a solid-state sugary peanut paste that they sell at the markets- yum!
I'm still loving it here, trying to assimilate as much as possible. My classes are great. Senegalese cutlure and Society (in English), Wolof (en Francais), French (en Francias, bien sur), Environmental Issues with Development (English), and L'Economie et Developpement de Senegal (en Francais). This would be an excellent class except my french is not good enough to fully comprehend all that my professor is talking about. I get most of it, but occassionally we touch on something that he feels strongly about and begins to talk faster and faster...
My family has 3 maids- all girls no older than 20, all are very sweet. Their french is as good as my Wolof which leaves us hello, goodbye, and How is your family?. Traditionally young rural girls come to the city in search of work as domestic helpers- hoping to get in with a member of the extended family so that they will be treated better. It is VERY strange having 3 maids, they sweep and mop the floors every day, do all the meal cooking, cleaning. My host mom introduced me to (what sounded to me like) Gory (what a name!), my 'designated helper'. If I have need of anything, just as Gory. well, Okay! I just have to learn how to ask in Wolof!
I have some school work to do, and I need to work on French congugation. It's getting difficult to tell stories when you are limited to Present Tense and Past Tense. Also, I learned not to say, "Je suis tres excitee d'aller au la marchee pour acheter les peigne!" There is no direct translation for excited- Excitee means horney. Oops, silly americans!
Off to my studies...
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
It's been a week already?!
I landed in Dakar on Sunday around 4 pm with two other girls from the states that I met in the Brussels airport. We were picked up by a very nice, very nonchalant Senegalese man who was to take us to our hotel. He spoke no English and very little French. Wolof, mainly. My baggage was not on the carousel. It had not arrived. He negotiated the lost luggage agent for me, thank god. Of the 4 students in the group, 40 of them are women--I had plenty of clothes and toiletries to borrow until it arrived on Wednesday
The first things I noticed about Dakar: Women in their beautiful Boubous: bright flowing dresses, pressed with starch until it shines. Not many trees, trash everywhere. Smiling people. Little shops selling phone cards, candy, and soda. Booths to fix printers, booths to fix and sell shoes, bags, fabric, tailors, etc. Everything is here! A rubble pile right next to a grand villa with flowering vines and rot iron fence work. Guards at the gate, guards in the alley. Talibes everywhere holding out an empty coffee can for money. Talibes are students of an Islamic leader, or marabout, who beg during the day for their studies and food, and sometimes for the benefit of their marabout. We've been advised not to give them money because the marabout/talibes relationship is not always healthy and continues the tradition. We could give them a little food or candy instead. A small talibe- probably 7 years old- approached me and said hello, holding out his can. I gave him a piece of chocolate. A man 10 yards away, wearing much nicer clothing, called him over and made him share it.
We stayed at L'hotel Citronelle from Sunday to Friday, a relatively fancy little hotel with hot showers and t.v.. 5 girls to a room: two on the bed and 3 on the large padded cot on the floor. We were well acquainted within a day. The other students here are all younger than me, 20 or 21. They are traditional students who went to college right after highschool. A girl from Harvard, Columbia, Georgetown, Tufts University, etc. Nice private schools. There are a few foreign students- from the U.K. and Canada and also an american girl who grew up in Uganda, another from Haiti. Many of the other students here are children of missionaries (yikes!).
We attend Suffulk University, somehow affiliated with the Suffolk University in Boston. All the classes are in English. The African students there are rarely Senegalese- many are Nigerian, or from Togo, Guinea… Nigerians all speak perfect English and tease us about our lack of American political knowledge. Most of the people I’ve met, be on campus or not, speak 3 or more languages. Nigerians, for example, grow up speaking English but also speak fluent French and German, occasionally Wolof and Spanish. My host families interchangeably speak Wolof and French (French for my benefit).
Young, politically-interested students love to speak Spanish because they associate it with the struggle of the Cuban revolution and Che Guevara. If you speak Spanish here, it is a sure sign you are an activist or a revolutionary.
The food here is great, but very spicy with the bulk of the meal’s calories coming form couscous or white rice. Saucy fish or meat on top. A large platter on the floor with the family around it. Most Senegalese use their right hand to eat, but mine uses large spoons. I’m not sure if this is for my benefit or if they are more modernized than most. The matriarch of the family is responsible for deciding who gets what pieces of veggies or meat by tossing them with her spoon or thumb in your direction. It seems very maternal when my host mom flicks the nicest piece of fish to the part of the platter in front of me. When you finish, you get up and leave, traditionally to make room for someone else.
Senegalese culture is extremely communal. Most of their words directly translate into very endearing terms (i.e. the word for family-MBokk- translates into ‘those with whom I share my things’). One’s family includes your neighbors and friends. There is little appreciation for ‘private property’ within the family. All food is everyone’s food, all clothing is everyone’s clothing. If you are in a house during mealtime, you are expected to eat with them. I have a locked armoire that I must use. My host mom is a 50-something widow with a HUGE house (3 stories) in which she houses her children who do not live in the states. I counted 13 people at the last meal but I’m still learning who is actually related and who is just a friend/neighbor. My host mom’s name is Therese and she goes by Mere Therese (Aka Mother Theresa) She has 3 sons in North America, one in NY, one in Canada, and I couldn’t decipher the name of the third city. There are a few little girls running around who speak to me in Wolof only. They are 2, 3 and 7. There’s a boy who is 5 but I’m not sure if he lives here or not. When I don’t understand or do what they’ve asked, they say it slower or louder. When I still don’t understand they look at me with their eyebrows furrowed, I know they’re thinking, “what a retard!” They really like my things and the smaller ones want me to carry them and play all the time. Pick up a thing, teach me the word. Point at my hand, teach me the word. Occassionally they tell me to do something in French: On y va jouer dans ta chambre! (Let’s go play in your room!) I’m sure my nickname is “the nice retarded girl who will carry you all over the place and let you wear her hats”. I’m not sure how you say that in Wolof.
I really like it here and it's been an easy transition so far. I'll try to post some pictures soon.
It’s nearly midnight and I must wake up early to ride the ‘car rapide’ to the school. Alors, Bonsoir.
The first things I noticed about Dakar: Women in their beautiful Boubous: bright flowing dresses, pressed with starch until it shines. Not many trees, trash everywhere. Smiling people. Little shops selling phone cards, candy, and soda. Booths to fix printers, booths to fix and sell shoes, bags, fabric, tailors, etc. Everything is here! A rubble pile right next to a grand villa with flowering vines and rot iron fence work. Guards at the gate, guards in the alley. Talibes everywhere holding out an empty coffee can for money. Talibes are students of an Islamic leader, or marabout, who beg during the day for their studies and food, and sometimes for the benefit of their marabout. We've been advised not to give them money because the marabout/talibes relationship is not always healthy and continues the tradition. We could give them a little food or candy instead. A small talibe- probably 7 years old- approached me and said hello, holding out his can. I gave him a piece of chocolate. A man 10 yards away, wearing much nicer clothing, called him over and made him share it.
We stayed at L'hotel Citronelle from Sunday to Friday, a relatively fancy little hotel with hot showers and t.v.. 5 girls to a room: two on the bed and 3 on the large padded cot on the floor. We were well acquainted within a day. The other students here are all younger than me, 20 or 21. They are traditional students who went to college right after highschool. A girl from Harvard, Columbia, Georgetown, Tufts University, etc. Nice private schools. There are a few foreign students- from the U.K. and Canada and also an american girl who grew up in Uganda, another from Haiti. Many of the other students here are children of missionaries (yikes!).
We attend Suffulk University, somehow affiliated with the Suffolk University in Boston. All the classes are in English. The African students there are rarely Senegalese- many are Nigerian, or from Togo, Guinea… Nigerians all speak perfect English and tease us about our lack of American political knowledge. Most of the people I’ve met, be on campus or not, speak 3 or more languages. Nigerians, for example, grow up speaking English but also speak fluent French and German, occasionally Wolof and Spanish. My host families interchangeably speak Wolof and French (French for my benefit).
Young, politically-interested students love to speak Spanish because they associate it with the struggle of the Cuban revolution and Che Guevara. If you speak Spanish here, it is a sure sign you are an activist or a revolutionary.
The food here is great, but very spicy with the bulk of the meal’s calories coming form couscous or white rice. Saucy fish or meat on top. A large platter on the floor with the family around it. Most Senegalese use their right hand to eat, but mine uses large spoons. I’m not sure if this is for my benefit or if they are more modernized than most. The matriarch of the family is responsible for deciding who gets what pieces of veggies or meat by tossing them with her spoon or thumb in your direction. It seems very maternal when my host mom flicks the nicest piece of fish to the part of the platter in front of me. When you finish, you get up and leave, traditionally to make room for someone else.
Senegalese culture is extremely communal. Most of their words directly translate into very endearing terms (i.e. the word for family-MBokk- translates into ‘those with whom I share my things’). One’s family includes your neighbors and friends. There is little appreciation for ‘private property’ within the family. All food is everyone’s food, all clothing is everyone’s clothing. If you are in a house during mealtime, you are expected to eat with them. I have a locked armoire that I must use. My host mom is a 50-something widow with a HUGE house (3 stories) in which she houses her children who do not live in the states. I counted 13 people at the last meal but I’m still learning who is actually related and who is just a friend/neighbor. My host mom’s name is Therese and she goes by Mere Therese (Aka Mother Theresa) She has 3 sons in North America, one in NY, one in Canada, and I couldn’t decipher the name of the third city. There are a few little girls running around who speak to me in Wolof only. They are 2, 3 and 7. There’s a boy who is 5 but I’m not sure if he lives here or not. When I don’t understand or do what they’ve asked, they say it slower or louder. When I still don’t understand they look at me with their eyebrows furrowed, I know they’re thinking, “what a retard!” They really like my things and the smaller ones want me to carry them and play all the time. Pick up a thing, teach me the word. Point at my hand, teach me the word. Occassionally they tell me to do something in French: On y va jouer dans ta chambre! (Let’s go play in your room!) I’m sure my nickname is “the nice retarded girl who will carry you all over the place and let you wear her hats”. I’m not sure how you say that in Wolof.
I really like it here and it's been an easy transition so far. I'll try to post some pictures soon.
It’s nearly midnight and I must wake up early to ride the ‘car rapide’ to the school. Alors, Bonsoir.
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