Category Archives: III

Deux fêtes (warning: some graphic photos)

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

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.

La nourriture

*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

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!

Les choses

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.

  1. 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

  2. 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.
  3. 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…

  4. 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!

  5. School has become more serious, as in we have texts to read and such. Texts in French. Heh.

    French academic text…

  6. 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*

*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

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.

J’arrivais (encore)!

So! I’m in Dakar. Crazy, crazy. Tellement fou. I don’t really know where to begin…Let’s see. My host family is great; my mom’s name is Daba, but i am to call her Mama. I don’t know my host dad’s real name; he was just introduced to me as Papa. And there area plenty of other people around, including maids, adult children, grandchildren, and friends. My family’s home is very comfortable and they are extremely gracious and hospitable. My friend Fiona,who is in the same program as me, lives right next door, which is great. I couldn’t be happier with my home stay placement; my family has nicknamed me Tiguida, Wolof for peanut butter, because it is close to the color of my skin.

Some surprises so far:

1. Speaking only French isn’t as hard as it sounded…

…because it’s the only option. A lot of Senegalese people know how to speak some (or sometimes a lot of) English (my mama was an English teacher, in fact, before she retired), but it’s of course not an option to try to converse in English (although it can be helpful to throw in an English word when you can’t quite find a way to explain something in French). My French is still comparatively bad, but it’s rapidly improving with frequent use. We’ve learned a few phrases of Wolof, too, which really impresses Senegalese people. Though you’d be fine speaking only French, learning and using Wolof is a sign of respect for and appreciation of traditional Senegalese culture.

2. My breakfast gets brought to me on a tray in the mornings…

…and we eat around a large, communal bowl for lunch and dinner. I’ve really liked the food so far—which is shocking, because i anticipated having to eat a lot of meat that i’d prefer not to. I’ve definitely had some fish, but thus far, have been able to avoid the “harder” meats. They’re easy to eat around in a dish of, say, rice, meat, and vegetables, and my family doesn’t get offended when i avoid the beef or sheep or chicken. I realize that i’ll have to bite the bullet at some point, odds are, but i’m happy i’ve been able to keep it to a minimum pretty easily. And honestly, the fish was amazing; nothing like the (small sampling of) fish i’ve had in the States: grilled, bone-in (and tail-on, incidentally), and served over rice smothered in this delicious onion sauce that i have to get the recipe for. It didn’t taste fishy at all, just spicy and oniony and great. And for breakfast every morning, i have what i’ve dubbed Reese’s Cup bread (French bread with chocolate spread and some peanut butter i brought from home).

3. It’s considered impolite to compliment someone’s home, etc.…

…because, among other reasons, to Senegalese people it implies that you are envious of it and may try to take it. Other cultural differences abound. The Senegalese conception of family is much, much more generous than the American one and usually extends to way extended family, friends, neighbors, etc., etc. And host students, of course. People are always coming in and out of the house; the front doors are kept propped open to facilitate this. Anyone who is around is invited to eat around the bowl when a meal is served. And it’s common policy to greet every person with whom you meet eyes when out and about, often with the Wolof greeting of “asalaam aleykoum,” meaning “peace be with you.” Doing this, other than just being downright friendly, helps solidify an even deeper sense of community. Already, people around our neighborhood of Mermoz are starting to recognize Fiona and me and appreciate the slow growth of our nascent Wolof (mine more nascent that Fiona’s, who is beasting it).

And there are many more surprises i’ll maybe talk about later. Tomorrow our group is visiting l’île de Gorée, an island off the coast of Dakar where many slaves were kept before being deported to the States. The island is also a hot tourist spot with lovely beaches. Interesting juxtaposition, and probably will be very thought-provoking. And tonight we’re going out dancing! Enchantée, Sénégal.

(Also, haven’t had much time to take pictures, but i will get on that.)