I woke up the next day, Tuesday, with my right eye swollen shut. Somehow I got a nasty infection with symptoms similar to a bad case of pink eye. To be honest, I was really scared. I was in Bandiagara, Mali, a full day’s drive away from a real city. I was supposed to be meeting our guide to go hike through Dogon within an hour. I was nervous that my eye infection would ruin my whole trip, if not the whole group’s. When everyone else got up we talked about our options: Since we had already paid a deposit on the trip, at least some of the group should go hiking, while one or two of the girls could go with me back to Bamako and a doctor. I had seen a pharmacy in Bandiagara the evening before, so Julia and I went there to see if the pharamacist had any recommendations. He was great. Looked at my eye and, with extreme nonchalance said that such infections are common. He gave me some antibiotic drops that cost about US $3.50. Within hours my eye started to get better. I confirmed with our guide that in the event that my eye didn’t continue to get better, we could bail at anytime to go back to Bamako.
We left around 9 in the morning an old Peugeot. The driver brought us two hours southeast of Bandiagara and dropped us off on the plateau/escarpement We hiked the next three days along the beautiful Dogon cliffs- les falaises dogon- stopping for lunch and dinner in the tiny villages. If you are interested, the dogon people have an amazing culture and history. There are several different contradictory creation stories- one has something to do with being descendents of aliens with lizard-like features, the others involve the dogon fleeing religious persecution during the spread of Islam from the north. They retreating into the cliffs to be able to continue practicing animism. The dogon are associated with certain human-soul sacrifice, magic masks that only certain people can see, and spooky knowledge of Sirius (the dog-star) centuries before Europeans. The wikipedia site (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogon) had some great information and photos.
We brought Kola nuts with us to give to people (basically payment for our tourism and photos) and slept at the l’encampements arranged specifically for hikers. It is impossible for me to explain what this area looks like, so I’ll try to upload some photos soon. Unfortunately, the Malian heat zapped the batteries out of all my electronics (camera, camcorder, and phone) within a day. Some cameras still worked so we are sharing photos. Much of our time was spent gazing out onto the Séno-Gondo Plains that stretch into Burkina Faso from the Bandiagara escarpment. It was truly amazing.
The trip back home was fairly uneventful. We slept at the Maison des Jeunes in Bamako, where Leah Beth, Emily, and I fell victim to a bad bed-bug infestation. It’s better than scabies, I suppose. We hung out in Bamako for a day and half, tried to enjoy a pleasant afternoon at the market but soon learned that the folks in Bamako are kind of mean. And Bamako is dirty. REALLY dirty. The smog and pollution are so thick that your skin turns kind of grey. We could see the smog begin to cover over the city starting at noon. The smog combined with the heat and the mean people made Bamako feel absolutely oppressive. Lots of finger wagging and yelling over prices. You can’t negotiate in a calm voice in Mali, one must YELL, apparently, with your fist in the air. We were called-out on our Senegalese style of Waxale (price negotiation). I went on a wild goose chase for ‘vintage’ African music on vinyl but fell short with some jimmy cliff. Oh well. We gave up the shopping excursion and hung out in the patisserie where at least you aren’t yelled at when you order a pain-au-chocolate.
The flight back to Dakar was magical. It really was. What took us three days on bus took an hour and a half in air. AND we were served coffee and tea! There’s nothing like going to Mali to make you truly appreciate the little things.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Bus trip to Bandiagara
Just got back from Mali. I was kicking myself for not bringing a journal or something to write in while I was gone- I guess I didn’t consider that I would have much down-time while I was in Dogon. However, I now know that the intense afternoon heat necessitates a long after-lunch break--- a time when most of the other ladies wrote and thought. I sat and stared, read the French dictionary, and slept. Walked a bit around the villages and crawled around on big rocks. It was only a 9 day trip, but it felt like months while we were there.
We left around 6 am last Friday (the 6th?) taking taxis to the parking lot of the stadium (aka bus station) where we waited and waited, forked over the CFA 22,500 ($45) for the trip to Bamako. The ride was supposed to take 2 days: 1 day to the Senegal-Mali border, and 1 day to the capital of Mali. I was gloating over my Spartan pack: my smaller bike-bag from Portland filled with good camping/bus food (thanks to my mother and her great care-package), Steripen, French dictionary, Mali guide book, bottle of bronner’s soap, and an extra pair of flip-flops (in the event that my good pair would blow-out while hiking) and 2 small dresses that I had made here in Dakar. Climbed on the bus and took off just after day break.
Eastern Senegal is awesome in the original sense of the word, and a little sad. I soon realized that I could anticipate a village or town by the presence of trash along the roadway and stuck in shrubs, mainly black plastic bags that are given with nearly every purchase. Very flat, dry. Beautiful old baobabs, 1000+ years old, often leafless. Black plastic tumbleweeds, water bottles, half pairs of shoes, rags. Huge fields of trash with the occasional miser digging for something useful, hunched over in the hot sun. Herds of goats and cattle eating cardboard and plastic.
In Koalack the bus stopped to drop off and pick up, and the already-full bus added about 10 more passengers. The new passengers sat on water jugs in the isles, paying less for their seat-less trip. We sighed heavily, annoyed that our 2 day trip would be so cramped.
English is as good as a secret language here! Walking through busy market streets, we speak freely about the vendors and our own lives, no one understanding but us. We left Kaolack complaining about our water-jug neighbor, but moved onto normal conversations that young women might have: boyfriends and lovers, mistakes, school, the future. Several hours in to the trip our seat-less neighbor looked down and alerted Julia, “You’ve dropped your water bottle.” In English. I was embarrassed at our behavior and tried to act nonchalant. We never apologized nor asked what he might have heard… Just moved on.
We all introduced ourselves. His name was Aliou and he was traveling with his childhood friend, Omar, from The Gambia (where they speak English, doh!) to Libya where an older brother had promised jobs. We became good friends and worked as translators for each other, as they didn’t speak any French and we didn’t speak any Wolof.
The highway system in Senegal doesn’t really exist. It once did, apparently, but now the roads are a network of giant potholes and in many parts, simply gravel. I couldn’t help but sing to myself, “the wheels on the bus go off and on, off and on…” We stopped very often to fix flats, repair engine parts, bathroom breaks, passenger exchange.
Towards evening that Friday the bus broke down in a small village about 40 km west of the Mali-Senegal border. We were told it would be an hour or two until it was fixed. Four hours later they said the same thing, 10 hours later the same thing again… Around 2 in the morning most folks gave up and started looking for places to sleep in the village. Some people offered their front porches, floors. The bus driver didn’t want us to go far in case he actually fixed the bus in the night. I slept in a crouching position on the bus while the others slept on someone’s porch.
17 hours later, the bus was fixed and we were off again.
We didn’t reach the Malian border until 6 o’clock the next day. The border patrol did a quick survey of who was on the bus and announced they were ‘closed’ for the evening. More than likely, this was a result of seeing all of the white folks on the bus (who could surely afford a little grease for the engine). After an hour or two of the bus driver and our Gambian friends arguing over the situation, we agreed that everyone on the bus could pay CFA 1,000 each to help the kind patrolmen allow us through the border. I’m not sure if I saw any of the Africans fork over any money, but we did. We were more annoyed that it took several hours to come to this agreement than the actual cost of the bribe, which equated to about $2 per person.
We drove through the night into Mali. I awoke just before dawn to see the sun rising over the beautiful, rolling Malian mountains. Everyone was sleeping on the bus. Sheep and cattle were grazing in the distance fields. We passed many small mud-hut villages with naked babies running around and tall, thin women carrying buckets and baskets of food on their heads to market. At that moment, I though that southwest Mali was the most beautiful country in the world.
We drove another day and got into Bamako in the early evening. Gave a too-quick goodbye to Aliou and Omar, regretted that we couldn’t continue traveling together. Within a couple hours we had found another bus that would take us to Bandiagara- the base camp for most folks hiking Dogon territory. At the last minute 2 Malian women stole my and leah- beth’s seats, removing our bags with which we had reserved our places (standard practice), forcing us to sit in the very back of the bus, above the engine and where all the dust settles. We argued and yelled, almost started a fight with 2 aggressive African women who argued ‘that they paid the same price as us’ for the seats and deserved to sit wherever they wanted. I regretted I didn’t know how to say, “fucking thieving fat bitches!” in French, and promised myself to look it up in my dictionary ASAP.
For some reason, the bus stopped every ten minutes to pick up passengers, exchange cargo. It was extremely slow moving and very frustrating. It was 110 degrees in the back of the bus, smelly, and the gentlement sitting by the door refused to leave it open because ‘the cool air makes you sick’ (fucking Africans and their health superstitions!). There was no ventilation, let alone air conditioning, and the fumes from the engine started making me Leah Beth and I feel nauseous. I don’t think I can properly convey how bad this situation was. I couldn’t put my feet on the ground because the engine block was directly below me, the floor was melting the soles of my shoes. I couldn’t put my bag down there because the heat would ruin my electronics. I sat with my knees to my chest, balancing my bag in front of me. I debating my choices: stay on the bus and throw up or pass out from over-heating and engine exhaust or get off the bus in the middle of rural Mali and hope to find a ride in the morning. In our sleepless delirium, running out of water, aching to open a window or door for fresh air, Leah Beth and I thought we might actually die on that bus. I begged the other girls to let us all get off and camp on the side of the road and flag a ride in the morning, but they thought it would be better to just stay on the bus. Somehow I eventually fell asleep with my head in my lap and woke up soaking in my own sweat in the morning.
We finally got to Mopti, Mali sometime on Monday. Exchanged buses again, this time for a mini-bus with a dozen sheep on the roof-rack. A 2.5 hour car ride later (and many sheep drop-offs), we were in Bandiagara. Looked down at our feet, black from soot and dust, ankles swollen from lack of movement. We took photos of our ‘cankles’ and flagged a ride for a hotel.
We stayed at a youth hostel at the end of town for CFA 3,000/ per person. Took long, cold showers and washed our clothes. I was positively elated. Propped my feet up to help my swollen feet and ordered a large beer. We had lost a day of hiking due to bus break down, but we had made it to Bandiagara and our guide was meeting us that evening to discuss logistics and price for hiking. We all fell asleep giggling.
We left around 6 am last Friday (the 6th?) taking taxis to the parking lot of the stadium (aka bus station) where we waited and waited, forked over the CFA 22,500 ($45) for the trip to Bamako. The ride was supposed to take 2 days: 1 day to the Senegal-Mali border, and 1 day to the capital of Mali. I was gloating over my Spartan pack: my smaller bike-bag from Portland filled with good camping/bus food (thanks to my mother and her great care-package), Steripen, French dictionary, Mali guide book, bottle of bronner’s soap, and an extra pair of flip-flops (in the event that my good pair would blow-out while hiking) and 2 small dresses that I had made here in Dakar. Climbed on the bus and took off just after day break.
Eastern Senegal is awesome in the original sense of the word, and a little sad. I soon realized that I could anticipate a village or town by the presence of trash along the roadway and stuck in shrubs, mainly black plastic bags that are given with nearly every purchase. Very flat, dry. Beautiful old baobabs, 1000+ years old, often leafless. Black plastic tumbleweeds, water bottles, half pairs of shoes, rags. Huge fields of trash with the occasional miser digging for something useful, hunched over in the hot sun. Herds of goats and cattle eating cardboard and plastic.
In Koalack the bus stopped to drop off and pick up, and the already-full bus added about 10 more passengers. The new passengers sat on water jugs in the isles, paying less for their seat-less trip. We sighed heavily, annoyed that our 2 day trip would be so cramped.
English is as good as a secret language here! Walking through busy market streets, we speak freely about the vendors and our own lives, no one understanding but us. We left Kaolack complaining about our water-jug neighbor, but moved onto normal conversations that young women might have: boyfriends and lovers, mistakes, school, the future. Several hours in to the trip our seat-less neighbor looked down and alerted Julia, “You’ve dropped your water bottle.” In English. I was embarrassed at our behavior and tried to act nonchalant. We never apologized nor asked what he might have heard… Just moved on.
We all introduced ourselves. His name was Aliou and he was traveling with his childhood friend, Omar, from The Gambia (where they speak English, doh!) to Libya where an older brother had promised jobs. We became good friends and worked as translators for each other, as they didn’t speak any French and we didn’t speak any Wolof.
The highway system in Senegal doesn’t really exist. It once did, apparently, but now the roads are a network of giant potholes and in many parts, simply gravel. I couldn’t help but sing to myself, “the wheels on the bus go off and on, off and on…” We stopped very often to fix flats, repair engine parts, bathroom breaks, passenger exchange.
Towards evening that Friday the bus broke down in a small village about 40 km west of the Mali-Senegal border. We were told it would be an hour or two until it was fixed. Four hours later they said the same thing, 10 hours later the same thing again… Around 2 in the morning most folks gave up and started looking for places to sleep in the village. Some people offered their front porches, floors. The bus driver didn’t want us to go far in case he actually fixed the bus in the night. I slept in a crouching position on the bus while the others slept on someone’s porch.
17 hours later, the bus was fixed and we were off again.
We didn’t reach the Malian border until 6 o’clock the next day. The border patrol did a quick survey of who was on the bus and announced they were ‘closed’ for the evening. More than likely, this was a result of seeing all of the white folks on the bus (who could surely afford a little grease for the engine). After an hour or two of the bus driver and our Gambian friends arguing over the situation, we agreed that everyone on the bus could pay CFA 1,000 each to help the kind patrolmen allow us through the border. I’m not sure if I saw any of the Africans fork over any money, but we did. We were more annoyed that it took several hours to come to this agreement than the actual cost of the bribe, which equated to about $2 per person.
We drove through the night into Mali. I awoke just before dawn to see the sun rising over the beautiful, rolling Malian mountains. Everyone was sleeping on the bus. Sheep and cattle were grazing in the distance fields. We passed many small mud-hut villages with naked babies running around and tall, thin women carrying buckets and baskets of food on their heads to market. At that moment, I though that southwest Mali was the most beautiful country in the world.
We drove another day and got into Bamako in the early evening. Gave a too-quick goodbye to Aliou and Omar, regretted that we couldn’t continue traveling together. Within a couple hours we had found another bus that would take us to Bandiagara- the base camp for most folks hiking Dogon territory. At the last minute 2 Malian women stole my and leah- beth’s seats, removing our bags with which we had reserved our places (standard practice), forcing us to sit in the very back of the bus, above the engine and where all the dust settles. We argued and yelled, almost started a fight with 2 aggressive African women who argued ‘that they paid the same price as us’ for the seats and deserved to sit wherever they wanted. I regretted I didn’t know how to say, “fucking thieving fat bitches!” in French, and promised myself to look it up in my dictionary ASAP.
For some reason, the bus stopped every ten minutes to pick up passengers, exchange cargo. It was extremely slow moving and very frustrating. It was 110 degrees in the back of the bus, smelly, and the gentlement sitting by the door refused to leave it open because ‘the cool air makes you sick’ (fucking Africans and their health superstitions!). There was no ventilation, let alone air conditioning, and the fumes from the engine started making me Leah Beth and I feel nauseous. I don’t think I can properly convey how bad this situation was. I couldn’t put my feet on the ground because the engine block was directly below me, the floor was melting the soles of my shoes. I couldn’t put my bag down there because the heat would ruin my electronics. I sat with my knees to my chest, balancing my bag in front of me. I debating my choices: stay on the bus and throw up or pass out from over-heating and engine exhaust or get off the bus in the middle of rural Mali and hope to find a ride in the morning. In our sleepless delirium, running out of water, aching to open a window or door for fresh air, Leah Beth and I thought we might actually die on that bus. I begged the other girls to let us all get off and camp on the side of the road and flag a ride in the morning, but they thought it would be better to just stay on the bus. Somehow I eventually fell asleep with my head in my lap and woke up soaking in my own sweat in the morning.
We finally got to Mopti, Mali sometime on Monday. Exchanged buses again, this time for a mini-bus with a dozen sheep on the roof-rack. A 2.5 hour car ride later (and many sheep drop-offs), we were in Bandiagara. Looked down at our feet, black from soot and dust, ankles swollen from lack of movement. We took photos of our ‘cankles’ and flagged a ride for a hotel.
We stayed at a youth hostel at the end of town for CFA 3,000/ per person. Took long, cold showers and washed our clothes. I was positively elated. Propped my feet up to help my swollen feet and ordered a large beer. We had lost a day of hiking due to bus break down, but we had made it to Bandiagara and our guide was meeting us that evening to discuss logistics and price for hiking. We all fell asleep giggling.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
goats, sheep, and sunglasses
Dakar. I read before I had even come here that it is the Paris of Africa. Huh. I disagree.
I still really like it here, but I think I like it because it isn’t Paris.
On Animals:
Only yesterday did some of the girls in the group learn how to decipher between goats and sheep. In their defense, the sheep here aren’t wooly like the ones we’re familiar with. We learned to look for the long tails (sheep) and the short tails (goats). Also, after pointing out the ‘massive balls on that one”, did someone learn that nanny goats have 2 teats, not 4 like cows. Oh! Americans!
Many families in Dakar keep a goat or two on their rooftops, bringing food up and poop down regularly. Land is expensive so it seems to make financial sense. Feeding the goats cardboard (which they do) also makes financial sense, but I’m not sure I can support that one.
“But he likes cardboard! Look! Watch how quickly he eats it!” True story.
Goats and sheep roam freely in the streets, often in herds that block traffic. I haven’t seen any branding so I’m not sure how families know whose goats and whose, but it seems to work out finely. I had expected to see a lot more chickens, based off of my experiences in Mexico and Latin America, but they are few here. They don’t have much to forage, I suppose, considering the ground here is only sand (no bugs), and chickens won’t eat cardboard…. Maybe they’re just too expensive to feed.
Fun observations this week:
-Rickshaw horses eating their grain and hay from a Senegalese trough: a defunct and fallen refrigerator with the doors ripped off.
-7-8 year old girls carrying 1-2 year olds on their backs. The younger babies carry teddy bears on their backs for practice.
- Small children here are afraid of cats! It’s understandable because they are all feral here, like rats in the u.s.. Plus, those howling noises they make at night would frighten anyone. When a stray gets in the house (often, because the house is open-air), they all scream and cry. Even better, the word for cat in Wolof is moose, so they start screaming and pointing at the ‘moose-mi”.
- The Senegalese have interesting believes regarding health. For example, Adult Diabetes is a huge problem here. I’m guessing this is, in part, a result of the massive amounts of sugar and white grain-food they. 4 sugar cubes in a small cup of coffee with a half baguette with chocolate is a standard breakfast. For lunch, more baguette with some sort of protein with more sugar-coffee and some sugar cookies and a soda or a juice, then some white rice with some fish or veggies and some juice or soda for dessert. They eat ungodly amounts of sugar here. When I mentioned the correlation between sugar and adult diabetes, they thought I was crazy and told me that diabetes comes ONLY from not exercising enough. Sugar intake has ‘nothing to do with it.”
Also, if you are caught without your flip-flops on in the house you will get firm scolding, because everyone knows colds come from your feet toughing cold tile. (Actually, I think gramma used to tell me that one, too)
None of the students have been able to figure out why the Senegalese are obsessed with the t.v. They watch it at all hours, during any free time, full volume. Somehow, I caught a moment when no one was in the living room and the t.v. was off, so I installed myself in the recliner to do some computer work while listening to some soft music on my laptop. My host mom saw me, sitting alone, came to turn on the t.v. (volume all the way up, of course), only to turn around and walk out of the room. She was being polite, in a Senegalese way. However, I was annoyed and got up to turn it off. So it goes.
-Terranga. This is Wolof for hospitality, and the Senegalese are very proud of this aspect of their culture. The hospitality is so strong here that if you are lost and ask directions, the person you are asking will likely drop everything they are doing to take you to your desired location. It manifests itself again in the tradition of giving items to people if they fancy them. If you say, “Oh, your sunglasses are very cute” to a Senegalese, you are likely to walk away wearing them. However, it sucks when it happens the other way. I’ve learned that the polite way of getting out of this ‘gifting’ obligation is to respond with, “I will name them after you.”
… And thus, my sunglasses will forever be named Abdul Muhammad NDiaye.
We succeeded in getting our visas to Mali, all 6 of us. Not sure yet on how to get there as we have several options ranging from $80- 400 dollars. We’re first headed to Bamako, the capital of Mali. Stay there a few days and hire a guide to bring us to Dogon Country/Territory. Spend 5-7 days hiking around the Dogon cliffs, villages, and ceremonial sites and then head back the way we came. I’m so excited!
I still really like it here, but I think I like it because it isn’t Paris.
On Animals:
Only yesterday did some of the girls in the group learn how to decipher between goats and sheep. In their defense, the sheep here aren’t wooly like the ones we’re familiar with. We learned to look for the long tails (sheep) and the short tails (goats). Also, after pointing out the ‘massive balls on that one”, did someone learn that nanny goats have 2 teats, not 4 like cows. Oh! Americans!
Many families in Dakar keep a goat or two on their rooftops, bringing food up and poop down regularly. Land is expensive so it seems to make financial sense. Feeding the goats cardboard (which they do) also makes financial sense, but I’m not sure I can support that one.
“But he likes cardboard! Look! Watch how quickly he eats it!” True story.
Goats and sheep roam freely in the streets, often in herds that block traffic. I haven’t seen any branding so I’m not sure how families know whose goats and whose, but it seems to work out finely. I had expected to see a lot more chickens, based off of my experiences in Mexico and Latin America, but they are few here. They don’t have much to forage, I suppose, considering the ground here is only sand (no bugs), and chickens won’t eat cardboard…. Maybe they’re just too expensive to feed.
Fun observations this week:
-Rickshaw horses eating their grain and hay from a Senegalese trough: a defunct and fallen refrigerator with the doors ripped off.
-7-8 year old girls carrying 1-2 year olds on their backs. The younger babies carry teddy bears on their backs for practice.
- Small children here are afraid of cats! It’s understandable because they are all feral here, like rats in the u.s.. Plus, those howling noises they make at night would frighten anyone. When a stray gets in the house (often, because the house is open-air), they all scream and cry. Even better, the word for cat in Wolof is moose, so they start screaming and pointing at the ‘moose-mi”.
- The Senegalese have interesting believes regarding health. For example, Adult Diabetes is a huge problem here. I’m guessing this is, in part, a result of the massive amounts of sugar and white grain-food they. 4 sugar cubes in a small cup of coffee with a half baguette with chocolate is a standard breakfast. For lunch, more baguette with some sort of protein with more sugar-coffee and some sugar cookies and a soda or a juice, then some white rice with some fish or veggies and some juice or soda for dessert. They eat ungodly amounts of sugar here. When I mentioned the correlation between sugar and adult diabetes, they thought I was crazy and told me that diabetes comes ONLY from not exercising enough. Sugar intake has ‘nothing to do with it.”
Also, if you are caught without your flip-flops on in the house you will get firm scolding, because everyone knows colds come from your feet toughing cold tile. (Actually, I think gramma used to tell me that one, too)
None of the students have been able to figure out why the Senegalese are obsessed with the t.v. They watch it at all hours, during any free time, full volume. Somehow, I caught a moment when no one was in the living room and the t.v. was off, so I installed myself in the recliner to do some computer work while listening to some soft music on my laptop. My host mom saw me, sitting alone, came to turn on the t.v. (volume all the way up, of course), only to turn around and walk out of the room. She was being polite, in a Senegalese way. However, I was annoyed and got up to turn it off. So it goes.
-Terranga. This is Wolof for hospitality, and the Senegalese are very proud of this aspect of their culture. The hospitality is so strong here that if you are lost and ask directions, the person you are asking will likely drop everything they are doing to take you to your desired location. It manifests itself again in the tradition of giving items to people if they fancy them. If you say, “Oh, your sunglasses are very cute” to a Senegalese, you are likely to walk away wearing them. However, it sucks when it happens the other way. I’ve learned that the polite way of getting out of this ‘gifting’ obligation is to respond with, “I will name them after you.”
… And thus, my sunglasses will forever be named Abdul Muhammad NDiaye.
We succeeded in getting our visas to Mali, all 6 of us. Not sure yet on how to get there as we have several options ranging from $80- 400 dollars. We’re first headed to Bamako, the capital of Mali. Stay there a few days and hire a guide to bring us to Dogon Country/Territory. Spend 5-7 days hiking around the Dogon cliffs, villages, and ceremonial sites and then head back the way we came. I’m so excited!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Nutella Nights
I've developed the nasty habit of sneaking out after dinner for baguette and nutella with the ladies. It's more difficult than it sounds. First, one musn't insult the host family by letting them know you are leaving for more food. Second, one musn't insult the public by eating in public. Also, if the beggers see you eating anything, they request their share (which would be fine, but they are countless!). We sneak nutella and baguette in the shadows of the cyber cafe. But there are scary things in the shadows as well... Check each other for the chocolate evidence on faces before returning home. It might as well be cocaine, really.
This morning I took the car rapide to the library to begin my thesis paper. I sat next to an older man wearing a full white robe, Sufi style, prayer beads in right hand, cell phone in the other. Interesting how the two worlds collide here.
My birthday went off swell. Good friends bought me milkshakes and pizza to soothe any homesickness. The sunshine on February 9th in Senegal is better than the sunshine in Ohio or Oregon, I believe.
I'm glad to be an American here and now. We are often approached by people (usually men) asking if we are on vacation.
No, students at Suffolk, we reply.
You're French? He asks, eyebrows furrowed.
No, American, we say in unison.
AHHHHHH!!!!! AMERICAN!!!! OBAMA! YES WE CAN!!! I LOVE OBAMA!
Oh, thank god, I think. So glad not to be French. Better to have just elected a black man to presidency than to be the snobby former colonizer. Even I can tell the French from other nationalities because the French refuse to say bonjour. Even Italians say good morning!
Tomorrow I go to the travel agency to find some cheap airfare to neighboring countries. Wish me luck!
This morning I took the car rapide to the library to begin my thesis paper. I sat next to an older man wearing a full white robe, Sufi style, prayer beads in right hand, cell phone in the other. Interesting how the two worlds collide here.
My birthday went off swell. Good friends bought me milkshakes and pizza to soothe any homesickness. The sunshine on February 9th in Senegal is better than the sunshine in Ohio or Oregon, I believe.
I'm glad to be an American here and now. We are often approached by people (usually men) asking if we are on vacation.
No, students at Suffolk, we reply.
You're French? He asks, eyebrows furrowed.
No, American, we say in unison.
AHHHHHH!!!!! AMERICAN!!!! OBAMA! YES WE CAN!!! I LOVE OBAMA!
Oh, thank god, I think. So glad not to be French. Better to have just elected a black man to presidency than to be the snobby former colonizer. Even I can tell the French from other nationalities because the French refuse to say bonjour. Even Italians say good morning!
Tomorrow I go to the travel agency to find some cheap airfare to neighboring countries. Wish me luck!
Monday, February 2, 2009
Du thé senegalaise
First, you run across the street to your nearest boutique/buvette (couldn't be more than 100 yards away) and buy a small box of chinese gunpowder tea. Use half the box with 8 oz of vanilla sugar manufactured just for this purpose. Light the propane stove and wait for the water to boil while you watch Mexican soap operas dubbed in French. 20 minutes later, you will be drinking 2 ounces of the sweetest, darkest, strangest 'tea' you've ever had. It's hot green sugar water, and it's yummy. That is Senegalaise tea. My 18 year old host brother, Petit Papa (I don't understand this name), drinks it 4, 5 times a day, each preparation a ceremony.
Yesterday I walked to the beach closest to my house. North through Ouakam, I passed some of the largest houses I've seen in Senegal, huge mansions by any standard. Spanish tile, walled-in yards and courtyards, perfectly manicured grass and bouganvilla... but the streets right outside the fences are gravel, littered with dead cats and dogs, even saw a goat hoof. Directly adjecent to a 15 bedroom home, we saw a hut made out of tarps and cardboard where a gentlemen sells Nescafe for his income. No zoning, no code...
On my way home around 7:30, I heard a screaming noise that reminded me of a bird. I couldn't figure out what it was. Soon, a baby goat ran in front of me, crying for its mother. It was no more than a foot tall, bright white. Scared, running around the streets in all directions and screaming. No one else paid it any mind. I wanted to to catch it, but it was afraid of me. A Senegalaise woman laughed and me and then told me not to touch it. I'm not sure about their urban farming standards....
One of the girls today said she saw someone killing a horse in their backyard. Cut its head right off.
Even our professor was surprised by her story, "Horses are very respected here. It must have been sick."
"Wow," she said, surprised.
But wow means "yes" in Wolof, so our professor didn't notice that she was shocked.
Yesterday I walked to the beach closest to my house. North through Ouakam, I passed some of the largest houses I've seen in Senegal, huge mansions by any standard. Spanish tile, walled-in yards and courtyards, perfectly manicured grass and bouganvilla... but the streets right outside the fences are gravel, littered with dead cats and dogs, even saw a goat hoof. Directly adjecent to a 15 bedroom home, we saw a hut made out of tarps and cardboard where a gentlemen sells Nescafe for his income. No zoning, no code...
On my way home around 7:30, I heard a screaming noise that reminded me of a bird. I couldn't figure out what it was. Soon, a baby goat ran in front of me, crying for its mother. It was no more than a foot tall, bright white. Scared, running around the streets in all directions and screaming. No one else paid it any mind. I wanted to to catch it, but it was afraid of me. A Senegalaise woman laughed and me and then told me not to touch it. I'm not sure about their urban farming standards....
One of the girls today said she saw someone killing a horse in their backyard. Cut its head right off.
Even our professor was surprised by her story, "Horses are very respected here. It must have been sick."
"Wow," she said, surprised.
But wow means "yes" in Wolof, so our professor didn't notice that she was shocked.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
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...
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 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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