Paris et mon anniversaire

Jan29

So, unbelievably, one month ago, i was in Paris. Wah? Honestly—people say it all the time, yadda, but—time passes so quickly. So i guess, before time gets away from me and i start to have to blog about how i’m leaving Senegal in T-minus 25 days (again, wah), i should chat a little bit about my time in ol’ Paris.

So, a big thing that colored the trip for me was that i was completely alone (save the first day, when i met with my bud Laurel, and the last day, when i met some friend from Women Writing for (a) Change in Cincinnati for dinner (yup, time passes quickly and the world is small)). Completely alone after spending two weeks straight with Avery traveling and chilling and eating and talking and all. So, perhaps needless to say, i was pretty sad and lonely some of the time. Not so much during the day, when i kept busy exploring, but when evening began to fall, i wished really hard for someone to debrief the day over dinner with. It was tough, but in a sense it was also liberating, and sort of felt like a good “fast,” a period of contemplation on the cusp of the new year.

corner of notre dame

well, yeah

statue in jardin des tuileries

That aside, i saw many things. If you’ve been following this blog you may recall the handful of days i spent alone in Copenhagen in September, and i recall that i ended up not doing a whole bunch of exploring. The same cannot be said of my solo trip to Paris. I visited many museums and landmarks, including le Musée d’Orangerie (art museum featuring Monet’s waterlilies, breathtaking), le Musée de Cluny (medieval history, so cool), Notre Dame (i was a little scandalized that we were allowed to tour the church while a mass was taking place), the Opera Garnier (setting, of course, of The Phantom of the Opera, the story with which i was heavily obsessed in junior high and what made my trip to Paris feel as much like a pilgrimage as a vacation), and the Parisian catacombs (also POTO-related and just generally goth and awesome).

chapel at the cluny

tapestry depicting the education of the virgin mary, cluny

famous lady and the unicorn tapestry set, cluny

ossuary in the catacombs

entrance to ossuary; “stop! here is the empire of the dead”

tunel of the catacombs

subterranean water #poto

grave at cimetìere de passy

passy

grate at the opera garnier #poto

lovely ceiling at opera house

opera house

mossy grave at passy

me geekin at the opera

chandelier at the opera house #poto

notre dame

Also kept myself bien amusée by seeing Skyfall and The Hobbit, drinking kirs pêches (white wine mixed with peach liqueur) at a café near my hostel after the day’s wanderings, reading one of the numerous books i’d bought in Paris/acquired from Avery before her departure, and just wandering around Paris. Now that i reflect on it a bit, i realize one of the things that i liked the most about being in Paris was the freedom: i could get to wherever i wanted to be using a map, or by looking up the address on the Internet. I liked being able to just wander around and be able to just hop on a Metro if i got too lost. Navigation has actually been an unforeseen challenge of my time in Dakar. Because street names change frequently, and businesses often close or change locations, the addresses you find online for a restaurant or whatever are often incorrect—if you could even find one in the first place. Add to this the fact that i’m pretty bad at getting around and the result is me being too lazy/afraid to try to find places on my own. So, it was nice to spend some time in a place where i was reasonably competent in getting where i wanted to go.

at musée de cluny

cluny

common cheap lunch for me: extremely sharp cheddar and avocado on a hard roll. not exactly french, but delicious.

best falafel sandwich of my life. of my life!

delicious apple pie laurel made on my first night in paris

Six days isn’t a lot of time for Paris, but i found myself pretty unstressed by it, as i anticipate returning in the future, hopefully multiple times. I don’t think it was my kindred city—way too fashionable, ha—but i loved it quite a lot.

Also, it was my birthday the other day.

Not my first birthday away from home, but my first out of the country. I went to the beach with Fiona and my new co-American, Gerrit (and went in the ocean even though it was freezing!), listened to Fleetwood Mac, went downtown for dinner with my friends at an Indian restaurant (called Indiana, ha), had my customary peanut butter birthday cake (courtesy of Julia and Laurel), and went to the bar. All in all, not such a bad day.

never thought i’d be seeing this on a birthday of mine

happy after diving into the freezing water

birthday dinner

paneer tikka masala

me and gerrit

mah plate

ca$h

peanut butter cake!

the cooks

blowing out a lighter instead of candles

eating cake around the bowl

we actually managed to eat the whole thing

Even though i missed the States/Avery/home/other friends, it came down to being surrounded by people who care about me, and who i care about, and that’s all i can really ask for. Thanks for making it a wonderful birthday, friends!

Parfait Portugal, redux

Jan10

After reading my rather cursory entry on our trip to Portugal, Avery suggested i do a second, more in-depth post, which seems like a good idea in retrospect; it was too great to gloss over in one brief entry. So, here are some of my favorite things we did during our week in Portugal.

Pena National Palace, the Castle of the Moors, and the Hill in Sintra

When we arrived in Sintra, a small town 15 miles from Lisbon where many monarchs/rich people of the past kept palaces, mansions, etc., one of the first things we noticed was the massive hill that stood as the backdrop of the small town, a hill crowned by a thick covering of mist. We wondered aloud what could be on the top of the hill, if anything. As the day wore on, the mist slowly parted to reveal a huge castle perched on the top of the hill: grey brick, curtain walls topped with crenellations (which form that familiar rook-like sawtooth pattern), turrets, the whole she-bang. From our bit of knowledge of the area, we realized that this was the famed castle the Moors had built in the 8th and 9th centuries—and one of the sights we planned to visit. Needless to say, i was less than happy to discover what a steep hike it would be, but in a matter of hours from our first sighting of it, Avery had us laboring our way up the hill toward the austere castle (i’d only made it that far because i’d been lead to believe that we were headed for a pastry shop (which, to A’s credit, we originally were, but once we discovered we were instead on our way to the castle, she didn’t allow to stop and actually find said pastry shop)).

a mystical well at the foot of the hill

Friends, the walk was long. And steep. It led us up through a little neighborhood complete with a church and restaurant, then suddenly shaded into a forested area more reminiscent of the jungle or the American deep south than what i’d vaguely imagined Portugal to be like. The foliage was thick and dark green, dark grey boulders dotted the landscape, the air was misty and moist and quiet, and no one else was around. We felt like we were in a fairy tale, especially when we diverged slightly from the path to further explore the forest.

me peaking into a little cave

pathway

me standing on the curtain wall!

After thirty or so minutes of further struggle (and pausing along the way to munch some digestive biscuits), we reached the Moorish castle in all its grave glory…to discover that there wasn’t actually much more to see of it, and that what we actually wanted to tour was a palace even farther up, called the Pena, constructed in the 19th century.

So farther up we went.

lovely art in Pena

shell-encrusted archway in Pena

It was worth it for the palace and all, sure, but perhaps what i liked most about having done this was standing back down in the town of Sintra (finally eating some much deserved custard pastries), looking up at the castle far up on the hill, and being able to say, “Yeah. We walked all the way up there.”

The Monastery of São Vincente de Fora in Lisbon

This monastery, which we visited on our second day, i think, in Lisbon, neatly encapsulated heaven and hell, if i may be so dramatic. When we arrived, it was grey and rainy, and we didn’t see any other tourists until the very end. The monastery itself was a nice one, home to monks during the 17th century, well-decorated with the standard Portuguese tile. But there was also something very creepy about the atmosphere…maybe it was the weather, or the fact that no one else was around, but as we gazed into the old cistern of the place, all i could think about was the survival horror video game Amnesia that i’ve been mildly obsessed with since my first year of college. (Never heard of it? Look. It’s terrifying.)

Scary cistern

This sense of dis-ease only increased when we reached the area of the monastery that housed numerous tombs of the monks, kings, and other holy figures, i’m sure. And, you know, i wouldn’t say i’m put off by death or other dark things just on principle, but…it was rather creepy to be all alone in this old monastery with the corpses of many monks only separated from you by some wood and marble.

Also, there were things like this.

wtf. i’m not completely sure this particular effigy was in this particular monastery, but i can sure you that one did exist there.

Has anyone else ever seen something like this? I was born and raised Catholic and never in my life had i seen a death effigy of Jesus such as these, but we saw several while in Portugal.

deserted

Things came to a peak when we entered a second room full of caskets—to be confronted directly with this creepy figure shrouded in white standing by one of the tombs.

Now, tell me that’s not frankly terrifying.

The two of us stood in the doorway of the room, unwilling to step in further and meet what was beginning to feel like certain doom at the hands of the mourning specter.

Avery turned to me and said, quite casually, “Welp, i don’t know about you, but i’d be fine if we didn’t go in there.”

I nodded; we beat a hasty retreat.

I mean, obviously it was a statue or something, but…better safe that sorry, n’est-ce pas?

this could’ve been us

Things took a dramatic turn from there. From the creepy, quasi-hellish lower level we decided to climb up to the roof of the building to see the bell tower. And that, my friends, was magic.

Allow me to muse on beauty for just a moment. Before i met Avery, i was not a very aesthetically-oriented person. It’s not that i would never find things beautiful, of course, it’s just when looking at something—be it a painting, a building, or a mug—my first thought wouldn’t be whether or not it was attractive or well-designed. But i’m happy to report that after several years of hanging around Avery and her family, i have a much more developed sense of what is beautiful—and, more to the point, what i find beautiful, and can now more easily appreciate said beauty.

And this view was so beautiful. The sun hung low in the sky and despite the abundance of thick cumulus clouds, it poured golden light all over the roof of the monastery, and everything else around us. On one side we were bordered by Lisbon, its hills and terra cotta roofs; on the other, by the sea. And standing there looking out over it all, it felt like i was seeing everything that could be seen. It all felt so vast and expansive, and i was smack dab in the middle of it all, just a speck(tator).

It was the only time i’ve ever been moved to tears by beauty.

The Lisbon Oceanarium

On a more lighthearted note, we went to the aquarium!! I love aquariums. They tie with planetariums for my favorite entertaining/educational facility/outing. Just like outer space ties with the ocean for my favorite realm! Ain’t that funny, tho. And Lisbon’s aquarium is hella nice; the second largest one in Europe, our guidebook described it as less of a series of separate tanks than like walking into the ocean itself, and that was very true. The museum was designed radially around a huge common tank filled with all sorts of creatures, and that central tank was flanked by various special exhibits, including sea turtles, puffins, and sea otters!

exterior of aquarium

jelly art

Gah!

Sea otters so cute!

me and avery’s friend lauren watching the birdz

really big ugly fish

art in the lobby of the oceanarium

The aquarium was nothing short of delightful, along with pretty much every other aspect of the Portugal trip.

Parfait Portugal

Jan1

Ed. note: All but two of these photos are courtesy of Avery. Thanks boo!

Lisbon was the first city i felt a kindred connection to immediately—or maybe even period. As soon as i walked out of the metro station and beheld the city, its white stone and hilly streets and pastel buildings and delicate tiles, i was swept away. Add reuniting with Avery after a three month separation and i was sold.

The next days were a beautiful blur of so many great things: art, gorgeous old churches, breathtaking views, strenuous walks to said breathtaking views, green wine, The Worst (meaning best) Chocolate Cake in the World, ginjinha (sour cherry liqueur unique to Portugal), fun and reasonably priced shopping, mystical castles and gardens, leisurely meals, pastel de nata (custard tarts with caramelized sugar topping), Europe’s second-biggest (and incredibly amazing) aquarium, and Avery—tho, of course, she’s not a thing.

Delicious vegetarian buffet restaurant (Terra)

The Worst (ha) Chocolate Cake in the World

Delicious tagliatelle with cheese sauce and roasted pistachio

Coming from Dakar, where every day is 75 degrees and sunny even in the midst of December, i was pretty nervous about facing winter as i’ve always known it, but Lisbon turned out to be pretty comfortable. (The cold was to come later, in Denmark. Oh, Denmark.) Ave and i walked pretty much everywhere unless pressed for time, which gave us plenty of opportunities to happen upon things we otherwise would have missed.

Lovely

The Moorish castle on top of the hill-mountain in the magical town of Sintra

Avery in a purely mythical landscape

One of my favorites was this cat in a window along a busy street. It was sort of laying in the sill on the inside and it was wearing a Christmas themed collar. Being the invasive cat lover that i am, i took it upon myself to reach into the window to pet the cat, realizing as i did so that an old woman was sitting inside the room, working at a sewing machine. Expecting to be reprimanded, i hesitated, but instead of smacking my hand away from her home and her cat, the woman became very animated and held up one finger, asking me to wait. After rummaging beneath her desk for a moment, she withdrew a cat-sized santa hat, picked up the cat (who had for some reason suddenly adopted a dour expression), jammed it onto his head, and began sort of making him dance by standing him up and moving his front legs in some vague rhythm, all the while laughing and speaking rapid Portuguese—all for my benefit. It was a beautiful moment.

Basically, Lisbon is all i can ask for in a city, and both Ave and i were very sad to leave, especially because that leaving entailed facing the frigidity of the great white north. But i suppose that’s the price you pay for having a once in a lifetime Danish Christmas. Avery’s host family was kind enough to invite us into their celebration of the holiday, and even though it was unsurprisingly strange to spend Christmas with a family other than your own, let alone other than your own nationality, it was a lovely experience. The majority of the rest of our time in Denmark was spent taking wintry walks, watching movies, cuddling, eating, and sitting by the fire. Very much appreciated.

Now, Avery has returned state-side (completely bizarre) and i am spending six days alone in Paris before returning to Senegal for my remaining two months there. A post on Paris, the city i’ve wanted to visit since circa age six, before too long.

: Pink

: Us

: Me petting Pavlov the hostel dog

: Seahorse

: Das goth

: Unique melding of jungle, city, sea, and gloom

: Moss graffiti

: Gardens at our hostel

: My two favorite dogs in Lisbon

: Just one example of the beautiful tiles all over Lisbon

: Awesome flock of birds

: Humongous tree

Deux fêtes (warning: some graphic photos)

Nov29

October 26 marked this year’s Tabaski, a celebration of Abraham’s loyalty to god which he demonstrated by almost killing his son Isaac/Ismeal at God’s request. Tabaski is a huge holiday in Islam celebrated by purchasing new, nice clothes, eating a big meal, being charitable, and slaughtering a sheep/cow/goat in commemoration of the sheep that ended up getting scarified instead of Isaac/Ismeal. You can probably imagine that i had feelings about sheep getting slaughtered in the courtyard of my family’s house, right outside of my bedroom door, as it were. Not only am i a vegetarian, i’d also never seen an animal slaughtered in person.

My mom told me past host students had avoided watching the slaughter, but i resolved to watch the whole process very closely. It was a matter of principle: shouldn’t i be familiar with something i’m so vehemently against? And besides, the slaughter is more or less the focal point of the holiday, from what i observed, so i think i would have felt sort of disingenuous if i’d skipped it. And while i expected the killing to be an upsetting but pretty straightforward experience, it turned out to be a whole lot more perplexing and evocative than i thought, and not even because of my personal politics. As it turns out, i find it generally very affecting to watch a living creature die—or, more accurately, get killed. That was what got me the most: watching the eyes of the sheep after their throats had been slit, seeing them struggle, trying to breathe, and eventually giving up.

I stood right among the men my family hired to butcher the animals, observing and taking photos. I didn’t cry, but i did feel faint a few times, not so much from disgust as just being purely overwhelmed at the scene before me, which intersected life and death in a way i’d never quite experienced before.

And just for the record, i find the practice of slaughtering one’s own sheep to be refreshingly honest. Anyone who’s ever celebrated/participated in Tasbaki knows exactly what goes into meat eating, and is free to make their own judgements from that knowledge. So while i abstained from the barbecued ribs my family smashed on a few hours after the slaughter, i didn’t feel any particular ill will toward them for partaking.

The other holiday i celebrated was less thought-provoking but just as powerful and, for me, slightly more lovely: Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite holiday, and this past one being both my first without my family and my first abroad, i wanted it to be special. “Special” ended up translating into spending a lot of money on imported ingredients like cheddar for mac and cheese and fresh cream for green bean casserole, but hey, it only comes once a year. I also managed to slap together a sweet potato caramel pie (made out of the infuriatingly mysterious white Senegalese sweet potatoes), which i was pretty proud of. We did a potluck-style celebration at our friend Tim’s apartment, complete with the aforementioned dishes, apple pies, roast chicken, stuffing, homemade rolls, bissap sauce (Wolof word for hibiscus, which is really popular here), mashed potatoes, gravy, roast veggies, and two types of salad. Naar na lool. Everyone had more than enough, and everything tasted so much like America.

Even though i missed my loved ones at home, i couldn’t really ask for a better celebration with my family of friends in Dakar—complete with imported New England foliage!

Des pensées

Oct30

A few weeks ago, our group was led on a trip to Richard Toll by one of our professors, a rural area in northern Senegal on the shore of the Senegal River, which we’ve been studying since arriving here. The week involved a lot of visits to various agricultural concerns in the area, including rice, milk, and sugar (we ate sugar cane cut fresh out of the ground!). Nino, Fiona and i also shared a lovely host family who didn’t have electricity (not nearly as inconvenient as i’d expected) and who did have two adorable kittens, one of which i fell in love with. Because the house had no AC or fans, Fiona and i frequently opted to sleep outside on mats beneath a huge mosquito net, and our family was cute enough to stick the kittens in the net with us. But! I can’t start talking about that or i’ll become mired in a perhaps premature nostalgia. So let’s talk about other things. Serious Things:

Our trip also included a visit to a tiny, traditional rural village maybe an hour outside of the already very small town of Richard Toll. The politics of a group of predominantly white Americans showing up to a small village—and being unable to communicate directly with the villagers, as they spoke Pulaar and we’ve been learning Wolof—made a lot of us in the group uneasy, especially since we hadn’t had a discussion about those politics/the dynamics that ensued beforehand. (When we tried to bring this up with our professor post-trip, a whole slew of cultural misunderstandings ensued, which in itself was an interesting experience: while a professor at, say, K, would have been all over a reflective discussion on the racial dynamics/subtext of such a visit, our prof here didn’t seem to see much merit in such a discussion, especially when we explained that we weren’t particularly looking for answers from him or anyone else, that we just wanted to explore our thoughts. Very interesting difference in pedagogy.)

Anyway, i don’t at all regret the visit, which was fascinating and enriching. I just wish we’d had some sort of discussion beforehand, which i think could have helped curtail some of the dis-ease i felt while visiting. A big source of this discomfort had to do with taking photos: i was having an experience extremely unique to studying abroad in Senegal, and was surrounded by a bunch of very beautiful people. Of course i wanted to take pictures of them, especially given my fledgling interest in photography. But it felt…weird. It felt exploitative, and voyeuristic, and rude. But was it? I couldn’t tell if these sentiments were just paranoia, or general anxiety, or knee-jerk liberal/privileged guilt that, while well-intentioned, didn’t really hold water. For a while, i was frozen in my uncertainty. But eventually i was overwhelmed with desire to capture my surroundings and, upon showing the villagers Stesha’s camera (which she was kind enough to allow me to use) and receiving smiles and nods in return, photographed to my heart’s content.

I wasn’t going to let myself off that easy, though. That afternoon, as Fiona and i lay in our hotbox of a bedroom for a brief sieste, i decided to spin some Socratic method: Why did i feel bad about taking pictures? Because it reeked of colonialism/exploitation/othering/objectification/exoticizing, and other nasty things i didn’t want a part in. Well, was it colonialism or exploitation if i wasn’t going to derive any benefit from the photos except a preserved memory? Was it objectifying if permission had been asked and eagerly been granted (the villagers, especially the children, had clamored to get into group shots once the discussion part of the visit was over)? Was it exoticizing if i’d have done the same thing in, say, any other group of people i was meeting for the first time who had invited me to their home for an interesting experience?

I had to say no. Yet, even though i could find no objections to the photo session intellectually, i still feel a strange anxiety in my gut about it. Maybe i’m just worrying too much, but i’m reluctant to shrug this uneasiness off: this was one of the very first experiences of real discomfort i’ve had as an American abroad—not just a vague sense of not-belonging/otherness, which i’ve felt since arriving, but true discomfort born from facing my privilege, legacy, and reputation as an American head-on, particularly in a post-colonial context. So, even if i’m making too much of these photos, i’d rather make too much than too little. I’m sharing them here because i trust that whoever who reads my blog knows i post them with the best of intentions and a lot of consideration and respect for the subjects.

: “Photo, photo!”

: This little girl looked so cute smiling, but as soon as i’d raise the camera to take a picture, she’d make this serious face

: Cutie

: Chief

: Some elders and some kids

: Laurel playing around with the kids

: Nino with the young men and a machete

: Fiona, Maria, and peeps

La nourriture

Oct25

*Okay, this isn’t a very serious or informative update. But i promise a very pensive entry is pending. Just sit tight and listen to me talk about food for a while.

So, as both an ardent eater and an ardent cook, food has simultaneously been one of the most exciting and challenging parts of my time in Senegal. As discussed previously, i’ve been obliged to break my five years of vegetarianism to fully assimilate here. (Tho it appears that my resolve on this front is crumbling—my non-meat eating ways are becoming increasingly known in my family as time marches on, resulting in a great deal of mystified amusement on the part of my fam, and some relief on mine. My papa no longer barks, “Il faut que tu manges” when i take only vegetables from the pot/bowl, and my mama is fond of joking, “Tiguida likes anything without meat” when one of the maids asks me if i’m enjoying one of the veggie entrees in the typical dinner rotation (i.e. spaghetti, omelette, and ketchup, or millet porridge with soured milk/thin yogurt), to which i respond, “C’est vrai!” (end ridiculously long aside)).

Eating ethics aside, Senegalese cuisine is generally very different from American. For one thing, at least in my family, it is more or less exclusively Senegalese fare. While we could bounce between, say, French, Korean, American, and Mexican cuisines in one day alone Stateside, my family has only had one markedly non-Senegalese meal during my close to two months here. So even though i personally find the flavors of Senegalese food pretty favorable, the major food flaw to me is repetition. Day in, day out, it’s a variation on rice, fish (or sometimes meat (beef or sheep) or chicken), a select few veggies (carrot, cassava, onion, and cabbage, mostly), and various sauces, and palm oil. Another common critique is the absence of fresh produce, both veggies and fruit. In the States, i’ll almost always opt for a veggie burger or pasta over a big salad, but honesty, some crisp romaine, cherry tomatoes, grated carrot, sliced radish, maybe some black beans, and a nice lemony vinaigrette…well, that sounds like heaven right now. But anyway! Let’s stick to the matter at hand. Which is not salad.

This morning, our first class was canceled in honor of the Tabaski holiday tomorrow, and, unlike the past two months, my breakfast was not ready on a tray upon my awakening (yes, i’m spoiled here), so i thought, hey, why not take this chance to cook some breakfast, like the good ol’ days? Entering the kitchen, i sized up my options. Potatoes. Onions upon onions. Eggs. Ketchup. Hm. If i sent my little brother to the boutique for some Laughing Cow cheese (the most readily available cheese[food]), i could whip up some nice hash browns alongside scrambled eggs with cheese, and smother it all with ketchup—a “dish” i’d sardonically refer to as Amuriken Breakfust in the caf during my first year of college. Yeah! This was the perfect opportunity to take a break from the oh-so-delicate Senegalese breakfast of baguette with chocolate spread.

So i got to work. Chopped the potato and onion with a paring knife on a tray (yeah), fried the tubers up in palm oil, whisked the eggs with some salt and filtered water in a little bowl. And just as i started scrambling the eggs with the wedge of Laughing Cow in the residual heat from the hash browns, Papa came into the kitchen and placed some bread on the counter, indicating it to me. So i hadn’t escaped the morning pain after all. Well, what should i do now? I didn’t want to ignore the bread and seem rude or ungrateful. Maybe i could take it and offer it to my classmates as a pre-lunch snack (yeah). But then again…wouldn’t the hash browns and eggs and cheese and onions and ketchup be so good sandwiched between the skinny-soft baguette with its shattering crust?

Dammit.

Why dammit, you ask? Well, my friends, this so-called Amuriken Breakfust had just turned into a deliciously ubiquitous Senegalese street food, le sandwich omelette, available at food stands, boutiques, and street tents all over Dakar for between 400-700CFA ($.80-$1.20). And once the thought of cramming my lovingly prepared vittles into a split baguette occurred to me, i was powerless to stop it. So much for having a moment of American food nostalgia.

Can’t say i really regret it, doe…

ñaax naa

à Dakar

Oct7

Today, we took a tour around the various parts of Dakar with one of our professors. Lots of picture-taking ensued (at long last); the products follow. Yes, this is a lazy post, but i actually have homework to do, and have been too busy all weekend to attempt it; on Friday, i had a sleepover with two girls from my program, then was downtown for much of Saturday and made pancakes for my family that evening (they were well-received!). And today we had the tour and i fell asleep for 2.5 hours after lunch, then Skyped Avery for another 2 hours or so. I’ve also spent a lot of time watching/thinking about Brokeback Mountain, which i’ve become rather obsessed with (at this oh so inopportune point in time). So yeah, i think it’s time to point my nose in the direction of the grindstone. Enjoy the pix!

: Maria and me in front of Dakar

: Our prof pointing out something

: Sea

: See the mace-lookin’ little bulbs? They contain an extremely powerful, dangerous drug that’s apparently stronger than salvia.

: Lotsa birds

: Julia and me

: Pelican!

: Shells

: See the kitten under the pirogue?

: Fiona and Maria in front of pirogue

: Fishtail in the sand at Yoff

: The beach of Yoff, a part of Dakar that does a lot of fishing and models itself off of traditional African beaches. That is, the beach here is used for swimming, fishing, bathing goats, chucking trash, whatever.

: More fish parts in the sand

: Dead pufferfish on the beach

: Makin’ pancakes (“les crêpes américains”)

: I realized too late that there was no spatula, so made due with a wooden spoon type thing for flipping

: Chocolate chip pancakes with honey grape sauce

: “Puissance,” or “power, strength of an army, muscle; brightness of light, force of wind; power, output of hifi; social, economic, electrical power”

: Goat! These are by no means rare in Dakar, but this one’s especially cute

: Fiona, Nino, and Maria with our prof, Ibou Diallo

: Dakar

: Lookin’

: Maria and Fi

Les choses

Oct2

It’s been some daze. But luckily, i am now in possession of my laptop once more (after approximately ten days of it being out of commission/at the Dakar version of the Apple Store, dubbed iStory). And luckily, the major events of the time elapsed since last update can be summarized in a neat list.

Last Friday, the group plus visited l’île Ngor, a small island off the north coast of Dakar. The island and water were beautiful; the party, which was held in honor of the departure of a friend named Nico, was interesting; and i and a few others of the gang woke up with some odd, small, non-itchy/painful red bites all over my limbs. Huh.
Photo by Julia. Us in the water at Ngor.

The gang (Fiona prominently) with Ngor behind

Skep bites
I got sick. As in, i had a sore throat for a few days but wrote it off then woke up on Sunday morning feeling, frankly, like shit: muscle-achy, headachy, congested, dizzy, hazy, and fatigued, plus really sore throat. Spent the day in bed. The next day, i felt a bit better, but still not great, and skipped school. I spent the morning lying in my bed in a feverish daze—seriously: i had an oddly lucid vision of the words of the book i’m reading (For Whom the Bell Tolls, for whoever is interested), which rested on the floor beside me, being projected into the very space before my eyes as i lay there. Yeah, i needed to go to the doctor. Which is exactly what my mama told me when she busted into my room and scolded me for not making an appointment yet. So i did, and turns out i had (have) a bacterial infection in my throat, where my tonsils once lived. And with that infection came fever, fatigue, etc., etc., hence my feeling rather poorly. The doc also pricked my finger and did a little malaria test just to make sure everything was on the up and up (it was). An hour later, i was home, medicated, and resting. Feeling better now—still a little sore throat, but no longer feeling generally unwell.
I’ve eaten a few of these bad boys.
Gluttony.

Yeah, they’re pretty much the antithesis of the veganism i was practicing not so very long ago (and intend to practice again once i’m back stateside): i mean, a hamburger patty, eggs, and cheese? Not to mention the general unhealthiness of it—there are also fries on it. (Why we don’t do this in the US i have no idea (don’t steal; i’m going to have it at my restaurant).) But hey. When in Dakar…
I received my absentee ballot! Sort of pleasing that the first time i will be weighing in on a presidential election, i will be doing so from Senegal.
Ballot!
School has become more serious, as in we have texts to read and such. Texts in French. Heh.
French academic text…
And a funny anecdote: So, for one of my gifts for my host family, i knitted an oven mitt. Thing of it is, people don’t generally have ovens in their homes here; it’s too hot. So even though my mitt is hanging above the stove in our kitchen, i began to worry that i’d given my family a useless gift. Until yesterday morning, when i saw one of our maids, Sala, grab the mitt, fold it up, and use it along with a pot holder to pick up a hot stock pot full of tea. Seeing it folded up as if it were any other piece of fabric, then used for its intended purpose of picking up something hot made me laugh out loud. Sala demanded to know what was so funny, to which i responded nothing, because i couldn’t find the words to explain without sounding like a jerk. Maybe i am a jerk? But hey! It’s being used!

The sort of sad mitt

Also, i’m sort of afraid i’m getting a cavity from too much Chocopain.

See it? Second from the right? And don’t think you’re clever for noticing that my front teeth are whiter than the others. Who whitens all their teeth?

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, or, another kind of walk of shame*

Sep23

*title in English this time for dramatic effect

THE GOOD

Kittens! We found a pile of them outside the Baobab Center, where we attend classes. Smallest kittens i’ve ever held, no bigger than hamsters.

Thought i wuz its mama or somepin

Babies in some trash

Only bitty with its eyes open

The Bad

At approximately ten o’clock on Saturday morning, i stumble into my host family’s home, head pounding slightly, wearing the same dress i’d gone out in the night before, clutching my shoes in my hand. What had happened? Well, not what you might have guessed. I’d passed the night at my friend/next-door neighbor Fiona’s house, due to the unfortunate fact that the night before, when walking home from a night on the town, my little pouch/pseudo-wristlet had been snatched right out of my hand. By the time i realized what had happened, the thief was long gone, and all i was able to do was say weakly to my companions, “That guy just stole my wallet.” Luckily, nothing irreplaceable was taken (5000CFA, or roughly $10, my cheap Senegalese cell phone, and my house and room keys, which i was most worried about). I dreaded telling my family what had happened, for fear of getting chastised or having to hire a locksmith to get into my bedroom, but luckily only 50% of those things came to pass; my papa dug up another key to my room and my mama, after chastising me (“il faut que tu fais l’attention!”), told me to eat breakfast, take a shower, get some more sleep, and relax. All and all, a nuisance, but nothing too serious. The following item, however…

The Ugly

The Ugly actually preceded The Bad, so you can tell i got out of it okay by the fact that i related the tale of The Bad already (and, i suppose, the fact that i’m sitting here writing this blog post, period). So, a group of us were waiting outside of a Casino, the most western grocery store Dakar has to offer, waiting for a few more people to show up so we could carry on to our destination. A creepy man approached the group, acting very friendly, gave our group a bag of bananas, asked us (twice) if we were tourists to which we responded (twice) that no, we were students. I avoided the guy as he was setting off little alarm bells in my brain, and moved away from him, to the farthest edge of our group whenever possible. Finally, it was time for us to move on, and he went on his way too. We were walking down the street he was crossing; as i made my way down, walking in the middle of the street to avoid a puddle, he crossed right in front of me. Personal space isn’t much of a thing here, so i tried not to freak out, but i knew my instincts were right when i felt him grab my crotch in passing.

I didn’t scream. That’s what i’m really disappointed about. I didn’t scream or punch him. I was so shocked that all i could manage to do was grab his grimy hand off my crotch and throw it away from my body. But he was already moving on by then, and it didn’t make much difference.

Yes, i’m writing about this in the completely public forum of a blog. In the spectrum of sexual abuse/molestation, this was (blessedly) quite minor, but even so, it made me incredibly uncomfortable, upset with myself and with the man and with the fact that these sorts of things even happen. It’s so gross and upsetting that i’d like to just shut it up forever. But by writing about it here, and making that truth known, i’m sending the message to myself that i shouldn’t be ashamed of this happening, that i did nothing wrong, that he was the only wrong one. And sure, i wrote a lot more emotionally about this in my journal, and present it here in a rather detached manner, but i am saying (writing) it aloud nonetheless. It happened.

But i’m okay. I told my friends about it, accepted their comfort, walked in the middle of the group, took a shower once i was able, wrote about it in my journal, and am now writing about it here. Hopefully, nothing of that sort happens again, inchallah, and if it does, i hope i’ll be able to find my voice to yell and let whoever does it know that it is 100% not okay.

There’s that. And okay, to end on a happy note, here’s some more good: the view of the sunset from my rooftop.

Little moon

Mini skyline

Le première semaine

Sep17

Asalaam aleykoum! The first week has flown by and ended up including a trip to l’Île de Gorée, a beautiful and touristy island that houses la maison des esclaves, where many slaves were kept before being deported from Africa as part of the Atlantic slave trade; several trips downtown Dakar; swimming in the other side of the Atlantic Ocean (in fantastically clear, briny water); buying fabric for a boubou, the garment worn to the Muslim holiday of Tabaski; meeting many of the neighborhood characters; dancing with my little host siblings and their friends at my little sister Adji’s birthday party on the roof while the power was out; eating a hamburger, beef, and fish, not to mention, for lack of the proper term, fish rinds (like pork rinds); going out to a discotheque and trying not to bust out laughing when Senegalese guys danced up on me; taking a bus downtown, into which we were packed tighter than sardines. And so so much more.

There’s still a lot to figure out, but i’m feeling pretty good about my language progression, understanding of the culture, and getting to know my host family, both the Senegalese and American parts (there are two other American students living here), along with our neighborhood. But there’s still a huge amount of things to figure out, like how to deal with your little sister rolling her eyes when you can’t understand what she’s said in French, and where to catch a car rapide (mini, janky, inexpensive bus) and know where it’s going, and how to say “non, merci” for the tenth time to a street vendor with the utmost patience and politeness. But slowly, slowly things come together. Things move slowly here. And i’m trying to tell myself there’s no rush to understand everything—that i’ll never quite understand everything.

I’d give more words, but i am truly bushed from today. Instead, some photos. My little sisters hijacked my camera this afternoon, hence the preponderance of blurry photos of them. Then again, a lot of the photos i took myself are a bit blurry, as well. C’est la vie.