Just wanted to let you all know that I will be on a blogging hiatus during the next week because I'll be traveling in Guinea! I'm leaving at 5am tomorrow morning in a common mode of transportation that they lovingly call a "sept-places" (literally translated as 7-places). What it really is, is an old, broken-down station wagon that takes people long distances: in this case, from Dakar to a town called Kedougou on the Senegal-Guinea border. From there we'll go to Labe, Dalaba, and Douki, and then retrace our path. On the schedule is one night in a very nice hotel (with hot water!!!) in Kedougou, one in a hut village, hiking, swimming in waterfalls, visiting the markets, and learning a little Pulaar, the national language of Guinea.
So don't worry about me if I don't write- I'll be driving, hiking, swimming, and living life for the next ten glorious days...
Jamm ak jamm (peace and peace)!
Jenny
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Beach, Episode 1
Friday I knew exactly where I was headed: the beach. After a week of hard work- thesis-writing, a French test, an inordinately large amount of Wolof homework, a presentation on the Angolan conflict (in French- not easy I promise you!), and the always arduous, hours-long process of uploading photos to Facebook- I was ready to lay back in the warm sand and do absolutely nothing. Unfortunately, I forgot that this is not possible in Senegal; au contraire, going to the beach can sometimes be more work than staying home! Enjoy the humor and randomness of the following sequence of events and draw your own conclusions:
3:00 pm- hail taxi to take us to the beach (far too hot to walk)
3:05 pm- finish bargaining with the taximan and climb in
3:10 pm- run into huge traffic jam due to road construction for the Organization of Islamic Countries Conference
3:20 pm- dripping sweat in stifling heat as taxi stands stationary
3:30 pm- finally begin to move
4:00 pm- finally reach ENEA, the campus where we take classes: fill up waterbottles and commence walk to beach
4:05 pm- run into chatty guard outside some building who tries to talk to us in Wolof. Grips his chest, points at my breast, and makes a sucking noise.
4:10 pm- finally understand that guard is trying to ask our first language (the word “maternal” [language] in Senegal is expressed by pantomiming a suckling infant)
4:15 pm- BEACH!
4:45 pm- young boys exercising and playing soccer on the beach begin to congregate around us
5:00 pm- few boys grows to crowd of adolescents sitting in a circle around us. A few speak French, but we practice Wolof with them, asking “Nata at am ngeen?” (How old are all of you?) Answers range from 12 (!) to 18. One asks for my number. I ask if he has an older sister my age. Yes, he does. I tell him he should just think of me as an older sister.
5:35 pm- two construction workers wander down from the numerous sites that are nearby. They shyly join the group. One stares at me. Noticeably. He is very good looking.
5:40 pm- Said construction worker gets up the nerve to ask if I am married. I tell him I am. He says that is too bad because I’m beautiful and “Tu me plait beaucoup” (he really likes me). The other worker tries to convince me he is American because his name is Sam. He admits he doesn’t speak any English, but insists he is definitely American.
5:50 pm- begin to feel slightly claustrophobic and decide to depart beach. Extracting ourselves from the group of boys/men is like parting the Red Sea.
5:55 pm- run into a man leaving the beach who stops us to talk. He is a soccer player; he plays in Sacre Coeur III where we live. His older brother is a famous soccer player in one of the French leagues. He asks for my number. I refuse. He writes his number in my book.
6:00 pm- run into another guard who mistakes Margaret for Amelia. He stops us to talk. He asks if I am naar* (Arab) and says I look like a Moroccan. He invites us to spend the night with him (literally translated; I don’t know if there is a more culturally sensitive translation…I didn’t stay to find out). We leave promptly.
6:35 pm- arrive home, safe and sound, with stories to tell…
*A Wolof word that means Arab. Although not derogatory, it has a negative connotation because Arabs, especially in North Africa, generally view themselves as superior to Black Africans. In short, to be called neer is not a good thing.
3:00 pm- hail taxi to take us to the beach (far too hot to walk)
3:05 pm- finish bargaining with the taximan and climb in
3:10 pm- run into huge traffic jam due to road construction for the Organization of Islamic Countries Conference
3:20 pm- dripping sweat in stifling heat as taxi stands stationary
3:30 pm- finally begin to move
4:00 pm- finally reach ENEA, the campus where we take classes: fill up waterbottles and commence walk to beach
4:05 pm- run into chatty guard outside some building who tries to talk to us in Wolof. Grips his chest, points at my breast, and makes a sucking noise.
4:10 pm- finally understand that guard is trying to ask our first language (the word “maternal” [language] in Senegal is expressed by pantomiming a suckling infant)
4:15 pm- BEACH!
4:45 pm- young boys exercising and playing soccer on the beach begin to congregate around us
5:00 pm- few boys grows to crowd of adolescents sitting in a circle around us. A few speak French, but we practice Wolof with them, asking “Nata at am ngeen?” (How old are all of you?) Answers range from 12 (!) to 18. One asks for my number. I ask if he has an older sister my age. Yes, he does. I tell him he should just think of me as an older sister.
5:35 pm- two construction workers wander down from the numerous sites that are nearby. They shyly join the group. One stares at me. Noticeably. He is very good looking.
5:40 pm- Said construction worker gets up the nerve to ask if I am married. I tell him I am. He says that is too bad because I’m beautiful and “Tu me plait beaucoup” (he really likes me). The other worker tries to convince me he is American because his name is Sam. He admits he doesn’t speak any English, but insists he is definitely American.
5:50 pm- begin to feel slightly claustrophobic and decide to depart beach. Extracting ourselves from the group of boys/men is like parting the Red Sea.
5:55 pm- run into a man leaving the beach who stops us to talk. He is a soccer player; he plays in Sacre Coeur III where we live. His older brother is a famous soccer player in one of the French leagues. He asks for my number. I refuse. He writes his number in my book.
6:00 pm- run into another guard who mistakes Margaret for Amelia. He stops us to talk. He asks if I am naar* (Arab) and says I look like a Moroccan. He invites us to spend the night with him (literally translated; I don’t know if there is a more culturally sensitive translation…I didn’t stay to find out). We leave promptly.
6:35 pm- arrive home, safe and sound, with stories to tell…
*A Wolof word that means Arab. Although not derogatory, it has a negative connotation because Arabs, especially in North Africa, generally view themselves as superior to Black Africans. In short, to be called neer is not a good thing.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Ndëpp
Today in Senegalese Society and Culture Class we learned about a traditional ceremony called Ndëpp. Unlike a wedding or a naming ceremony, ndëpp is undoubtedly a bit more sinister in nature, resembling a mix between a traditional animal sacrifice and an exorcism. While I have tried very hard thus far to report my experiences as objective observations, there is simply no way to normalize what I find to be an odd and slightly frightening practice.
Ndëpp is a ceremony undertaken only when one is genuinely and terribly sick. While is used to apply only to mental illness- depression, anxiety, etc. –it has since developed as a solution to many kinds of maladies, both mental and physical. For instance, we watched a movie in which a man in a very small and close-knit village killed his best friend out of jealousy (they both loved the same woman). As a punishment he is forced to marry his friend’s widow, who consequently harasses him daily about his misdeeds. However, because the community is certain that he must have been mentally ill- outside of his mind, in fact –in order to kill his best friend, he undergoes an ndëpp ceremony, which allows him to regain his status as a full and healthy member of the community. In this sense, ndëpp has traditionally been used as a mechanism for punishment and reintegration, and as a tool for social cohesion. The way it is practiced today is much less subtle.
The movie we watched consisted of a lot of food preparation (of course, what Senegalese tradition would be complete without the inclusion of large portions of food…), a chanting priestess, and a ritual animal sacrifice. Actually, the movie was a recording of the tuuru, or offering ceremony that precedes an ndëpp. You see, before attempting to exorcise or heal someone, you must make sure that the spirits are appeased and therefore willing to help in the process. Thus, you must feed them. The jinne (pronounced “genie”) protector of Dakar is called Lek Daour Mbaye, and supposedly lives on Ile des Madeleines (otherwise known as Ile des Serpents- Island of the Snakes), a tiny island just off the coast of downtown. Therefore a lot of ndëpp ceremonies take place on the nearby mainland beach.
The offering ceremony is long and complicated, requiring the participation of literally entire villages of people. Women spend the morning preparing food, some of which will be thrown into the sea as an offering to the spirits, and some of which will be eaten by children scheduled to attend the actual ndëpp . The Senegalese believe that children are pure and innocent beings, untainted by sin and evil, and thus they are recruited for ndëpp to bring luck and protective spirits. When the food is ready, the pilgrimage to the beach begins. There the priestess and participants pray before they begin with their offerings.
First, the lait caillé is poured into the tide, which slowly washes it away. An appetizer, apparently, for soon afterwards, they slaughter a bull. The priestess must crack eggs on the bull in four places- the head, the back, the rump, and the legs –so that the spirits will recognize that the meat of the cow is not for them, but is for the villagers to eat. Then its throat is cut and its blood carefully gathered in a large bowl. The animal is then quickly (and expertly) skinned and divided up, while the sick persons in question wash their hands in the cow’s blood. This is part of the extensive symbolism of the ceremony: the animal’s death represents the death of the evil spirits inhabiting the sick person/people. It follows then, that by washing in the animal’s blood, they are cleansing themselves of evil spirits.
After the bull has been prepared, his innards are hauled into the ocean by a strong young man who must swim out as far as he can with them. You see, it’s a very bad sign if cow parts wash up on the beach- it means the spirits have refused the sacrifice. So once the man is far enough out, he shreds the intestines, stomach, liver, etc. in the water. He returns to the beach and makes another trip with the bull’s head. Finally, the blood is washed off the beach and the villagers depart for home.
And that’s just the tuuru ceremony! The entire ndepp can take up to two weeks to complete. I didn’t get a very clear picture of exactly what happens during the ndepp proper, but it involves a large group of people, circled up, singing and drumming. It is rumored that participants- even skeptical Westerners- often fall into trances and act like animals. Then they must be tamed by the priestess, who alone can transform their spirit back into human form.
I cannot pretend that I am even remotely open to the idea of ndepp. On the contrary, I question how such a deeply Muslim country can continue to practice such ceremonies, for even if they have been integrated into Senegalese culture, they are still inherently animist in nature and therefore diametrically opposed to Islam. At any rate, our professor said the ceremonies themselves are rather rare, but that belief in them is not. Apparently the majority of people I meet every day in Dakar believe in them. It’s interesting that at this point, that statistic does not surprise me. If there is one thing I have learned in Senegal, it is how to learn about and experience new things- things that most Americans would deem “weird”- and not judge people for their belief in them. After all, lots of Catholics believe in the devil, bodily possession by demons, exorcism, etc. The differences, I’m finding, are more slight and nuanced than I could have possibly imagined…
Ndëpp is a ceremony undertaken only when one is genuinely and terribly sick. While is used to apply only to mental illness- depression, anxiety, etc. –it has since developed as a solution to many kinds of maladies, both mental and physical. For instance, we watched a movie in which a man in a very small and close-knit village killed his best friend out of jealousy (they both loved the same woman). As a punishment he is forced to marry his friend’s widow, who consequently harasses him daily about his misdeeds. However, because the community is certain that he must have been mentally ill- outside of his mind, in fact –in order to kill his best friend, he undergoes an ndëpp ceremony, which allows him to regain his status as a full and healthy member of the community. In this sense, ndëpp has traditionally been used as a mechanism for punishment and reintegration, and as a tool for social cohesion. The way it is practiced today is much less subtle.
The movie we watched consisted of a lot of food preparation (of course, what Senegalese tradition would be complete without the inclusion of large portions of food…), a chanting priestess, and a ritual animal sacrifice. Actually, the movie was a recording of the tuuru, or offering ceremony that precedes an ndëpp. You see, before attempting to exorcise or heal someone, you must make sure that the spirits are appeased and therefore willing to help in the process. Thus, you must feed them. The jinne (pronounced “genie”) protector of Dakar is called Lek Daour Mbaye, and supposedly lives on Ile des Madeleines (otherwise known as Ile des Serpents- Island of the Snakes), a tiny island just off the coast of downtown. Therefore a lot of ndëpp ceremonies take place on the nearby mainland beach.
The offering ceremony is long and complicated, requiring the participation of literally entire villages of people. Women spend the morning preparing food, some of which will be thrown into the sea as an offering to the spirits, and some of which will be eaten by children scheduled to attend the actual ndëpp . The Senegalese believe that children are pure and innocent beings, untainted by sin and evil, and thus they are recruited for ndëpp to bring luck and protective spirits. When the food is ready, the pilgrimage to the beach begins. There the priestess and participants pray before they begin with their offerings.
First, the lait caillé is poured into the tide, which slowly washes it away. An appetizer, apparently, for soon afterwards, they slaughter a bull. The priestess must crack eggs on the bull in four places- the head, the back, the rump, and the legs –so that the spirits will recognize that the meat of the cow is not for them, but is for the villagers to eat. Then its throat is cut and its blood carefully gathered in a large bowl. The animal is then quickly (and expertly) skinned and divided up, while the sick persons in question wash their hands in the cow’s blood. This is part of the extensive symbolism of the ceremony: the animal’s death represents the death of the evil spirits inhabiting the sick person/people. It follows then, that by washing in the animal’s blood, they are cleansing themselves of evil spirits.
After the bull has been prepared, his innards are hauled into the ocean by a strong young man who must swim out as far as he can with them. You see, it’s a very bad sign if cow parts wash up on the beach- it means the spirits have refused the sacrifice. So once the man is far enough out, he shreds the intestines, stomach, liver, etc. in the water. He returns to the beach and makes another trip with the bull’s head. Finally, the blood is washed off the beach and the villagers depart for home.
And that’s just the tuuru ceremony! The entire ndepp can take up to two weeks to complete. I didn’t get a very clear picture of exactly what happens during the ndepp proper, but it involves a large group of people, circled up, singing and drumming. It is rumored that participants- even skeptical Westerners- often fall into trances and act like animals. Then they must be tamed by the priestess, who alone can transform their spirit back into human form.
I cannot pretend that I am even remotely open to the idea of ndepp. On the contrary, I question how such a deeply Muslim country can continue to practice such ceremonies, for even if they have been integrated into Senegalese culture, they are still inherently animist in nature and therefore diametrically opposed to Islam. At any rate, our professor said the ceremonies themselves are rather rare, but that belief in them is not. Apparently the majority of people I meet every day in Dakar believe in them. It’s interesting that at this point, that statistic does not surprise me. If there is one thing I have learned in Senegal, it is how to learn about and experience new things- things that most Americans would deem “weird”- and not judge people for their belief in them. After all, lots of Catholics believe in the devil, bodily possession by demons, exorcism, etc. The differences, I’m finding, are more slight and nuanced than I could have possibly imagined…
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Toubab Dialaw
17 février 2008
This weekend I visited paradise. Yes, it was heaven on earth. Unfortunately I had this nagging feeling that I was in an oasis and that just outside was poverty and toil- I don’t know maybe it was the skinny children begging for coins on the side of the road or the tattered and dirt-colored clothing that everyone wore. At any rate, I had a fabulous vacation.
No, what really happened this weekend is that I got a glimpse of how most Toubabs experience Senegal, and I came to realize quite quickly why the Senegalese dislike the French so thoroughly. It’s true, we went to an indescribably picturesque coastal village two hours outside of Dakar, but it was far from heaven on earth. I was constantly torn between the desire to return the teranga (hospitality) shown to me by chatting with locals, and the desire to shout at them to leave me alone because I did not want to buy any of their goods at inflated prices. In comparison to vendors in Dakar who have to deal with big African mommas skilled at waxaale (bartering), these vendors make out like bandits- the same pair of shoes that I would by for 2000 cfa, they sell for 8000. But they nonetheless live day-to-day, making ends meet with whatever they can convince tourists to pay.
At any rate, it was an odd experience to be staying in a luxurious hotel with a bunch of other white people (a few Canadians, but mostly old French people) where the night guard will stop what he’s doing to get you a soda at 1 am and the staff will readily tell you what beaches are reserved for “les blancs”- whites. I am used to the chaos of Dakar where my whiteness is swallowed up by the masses of Senegalese people, the smoke from burning garbage, and the black exhaust of taxis. Except for the occasional teenager who tries to get my attention by making kissing sounds, I am either ignored or greeted like everyone else. I am a student living in Dakar, and I think, look, and act like one. People on the way to school know me, we chat in Wolof, I buy fruit or cucumbers, and I pass them on the way home, telling them “Maangi ñibbi, ba suba (inchalla)!”- I’m going home now, see you tomorrow (God willing)! But to the villagers at Toubab Dialaw I was just another wallet, and I admit that to be judged so effortlessly and unfairly was upsetting.
The weekend was nonetheless fantastic. Without anywhere to go except the beach, and room and board paid by the program, there was no alternative to being an unadulterated tourist. So I accepted the inevitability of it. I went to the beach with my book and my ipod and stretched out in the sun, which was deliciously warm. When I got too hot, I plunged into the frigid (really, it was COLD) ocean, fighting against the enormous waves and dangerous undertow. It was a rush. I also climbed the boulder just off the shore with a bunch of friends and sat there for awhile while waves soaked us. (See coordinating Facebook picture…) We ordered drinks, played Frisbee, took long walks along the beach (haha, how cliché), and shopped for jewelry which the ladies on the beach brought to us in handmade wicker baskets that they carry on their heads.
It really was lovely, but so utterly artificial. The only reason I supported such an escapade was because it was part of a larger, and much more genuine, experience in Senegal. I have come to be very critical of tourism like the kind I saw at Toubab Dialaw; even if it does swell the local economy, it gives people the impression that they have experienced Senegal when they have simply been transplanted, language, customs, and all, into another place. Case in point, meals: we ate pasta, salad (absolutely no one eats salad in Senegal!) and egg rolls at various meals, served to us on individual plates with fork, knife, and spoon, and washed down with American beverages that a waitress brought us. Not Senegalese. Nor were the pristine beaches, or the candy-colored little stores, or the flushing toilets with toilet paper (although I did appreciate that little detail…) I do feel a bit snobbish passing judgment on the other tourists, but I have a hard time getting over the fact that they are perfectly willing to accept the sugar-coated experience presented to them without any further thought. Knowing how wonderful Senegal is- both the people and the place itself are inspiring- it is frustrating to see others barely skim the surface and still leave satisfied.
In short, I think my sentiments toward Toubab Dialaw are similar to those of the Goree Island visit. While I recognize that tourism is an important source of revenue for Senegal, I hate the imagery I see of Black Africa reaching its hand out to the great White West for preservation.
This weekend I visited paradise. Yes, it was heaven on earth. Unfortunately I had this nagging feeling that I was in an oasis and that just outside was poverty and toil- I don’t know maybe it was the skinny children begging for coins on the side of the road or the tattered and dirt-colored clothing that everyone wore. At any rate, I had a fabulous vacation.
No, what really happened this weekend is that I got a glimpse of how most Toubabs experience Senegal, and I came to realize quite quickly why the Senegalese dislike the French so thoroughly. It’s true, we went to an indescribably picturesque coastal village two hours outside of Dakar, but it was far from heaven on earth. I was constantly torn between the desire to return the teranga (hospitality) shown to me by chatting with locals, and the desire to shout at them to leave me alone because I did not want to buy any of their goods at inflated prices. In comparison to vendors in Dakar who have to deal with big African mommas skilled at waxaale (bartering), these vendors make out like bandits- the same pair of shoes that I would by for 2000 cfa, they sell for 8000. But they nonetheless live day-to-day, making ends meet with whatever they can convince tourists to pay.
At any rate, it was an odd experience to be staying in a luxurious hotel with a bunch of other white people (a few Canadians, but mostly old French people) where the night guard will stop what he’s doing to get you a soda at 1 am and the staff will readily tell you what beaches are reserved for “les blancs”- whites. I am used to the chaos of Dakar where my whiteness is swallowed up by the masses of Senegalese people, the smoke from burning garbage, and the black exhaust of taxis. Except for the occasional teenager who tries to get my attention by making kissing sounds, I am either ignored or greeted like everyone else. I am a student living in Dakar, and I think, look, and act like one. People on the way to school know me, we chat in Wolof, I buy fruit or cucumbers, and I pass them on the way home, telling them “Maangi ñibbi, ba suba (inchalla)!”- I’m going home now, see you tomorrow (God willing)! But to the villagers at Toubab Dialaw I was just another wallet, and I admit that to be judged so effortlessly and unfairly was upsetting.
The weekend was nonetheless fantastic. Without anywhere to go except the beach, and room and board paid by the program, there was no alternative to being an unadulterated tourist. So I accepted the inevitability of it. I went to the beach with my book and my ipod and stretched out in the sun, which was deliciously warm. When I got too hot, I plunged into the frigid (really, it was COLD) ocean, fighting against the enormous waves and dangerous undertow. It was a rush. I also climbed the boulder just off the shore with a bunch of friends and sat there for awhile while waves soaked us. (See coordinating Facebook picture…) We ordered drinks, played Frisbee, took long walks along the beach (haha, how cliché), and shopped for jewelry which the ladies on the beach brought to us in handmade wicker baskets that they carry on their heads.
It really was lovely, but so utterly artificial. The only reason I supported such an escapade was because it was part of a larger, and much more genuine, experience in Senegal. I have come to be very critical of tourism like the kind I saw at Toubab Dialaw; even if it does swell the local economy, it gives people the impression that they have experienced Senegal when they have simply been transplanted, language, customs, and all, into another place. Case in point, meals: we ate pasta, salad (absolutely no one eats salad in Senegal!) and egg rolls at various meals, served to us on individual plates with fork, knife, and spoon, and washed down with American beverages that a waitress brought us. Not Senegalese. Nor were the pristine beaches, or the candy-colored little stores, or the flushing toilets with toilet paper (although I did appreciate that little detail…) I do feel a bit snobbish passing judgment on the other tourists, but I have a hard time getting over the fact that they are perfectly willing to accept the sugar-coated experience presented to them without any further thought. Knowing how wonderful Senegal is- both the people and the place itself are inspiring- it is frustrating to see others barely skim the surface and still leave satisfied.
In short, I think my sentiments toward Toubab Dialaw are similar to those of the Goree Island visit. While I recognize that tourism is an important source of revenue for Senegal, I hate the imagery I see of Black Africa reaching its hand out to the great White West for preservation.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Skype is the greatest thing that ever happened to me!!!
Hello all. Today I had my first Skype chat with Morgan and it was FABULOUS! I am fairly certain that my desire to talk with people will not be satiated in the near future. Below please find my Skype schedule, download the program in a timely manner (read: immediately), and get chatting!
Tuesday/Thursday: 7am-9:30am (EST)
Friday: anytime by appointment (keeping in mind the time difference)
Yay!
Tuesday/Thursday: 7am-9:30am (EST)
Friday: anytime by appointment (keeping in mind the time difference)
Yay!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
I hate Wednesdays!!!
Today was not a good day- it was the first time that I felt like Africa was getting in the way of my studies instead of adding to or enriching them. Today I was rejected by Professor Madavo, who I requested to be my thesis advisor. He wrote me one line: "I am sorry because of other commitments, I am not able to do it."
As of now, I have written countless emails to deans, faculty members, and respected professors asking for advice on who to contact for information or help and only one- one sole person -has written me back. Is it just bad luck or is it a sign? Should I be doing something else with my time in Africa, something that doesn't involve stressing over a paper that I won't even begin writing until this fall (in theory; realistically I probably won't start writing it until next spring!) Maybe I'm just being impatient and should wait some more. Or maybe I'm just being irrational and my physical presence in Georgetown wouldn't actually make anything easier. All I know is that I'm incredibly frustrated everyone around me a) has a topic and a thesis advisor (some with the helpful reference of one of my papers!) or b) carries on with daily life blissfully unaware of thesis proposal season because the most stressful part of the day is deciding whether to go to Arc en Ciel for pizza or Cebbu Jen Shack for lunch!
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, which usually doesn't promise much joy for me either. But perhaps this year I will have a secret admirer...
As of now, I have written countless emails to deans, faculty members, and respected professors asking for advice on who to contact for information or help and only one- one sole person -has written me back. Is it just bad luck or is it a sign? Should I be doing something else with my time in Africa, something that doesn't involve stressing over a paper that I won't even begin writing until this fall (in theory; realistically I probably won't start writing it until next spring!) Maybe I'm just being impatient and should wait some more. Or maybe I'm just being irrational and my physical presence in Georgetown wouldn't actually make anything easier. All I know is that I'm incredibly frustrated everyone around me a) has a topic and a thesis advisor (some with the helpful reference of one of my papers!) or b) carries on with daily life blissfully unaware of thesis proposal season because the most stressful part of the day is deciding whether to go to Arc en Ciel for pizza or Cebbu Jen Shack for lunch!
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, which usually doesn't promise much joy for me either. But perhaps this year I will have a secret admirer...
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Thesis Proposal
Why in the world did Georgetown University think it was a good idea to make the deadline for thesis proposals in the spring of Junior year? When a great percentage of students are abroad, with limited resources and sketchy Internet? What an intelligent choice for a "world-class" University. Yes, I'm slightly bitter, but I've chosen a topic and am hoping to do some research while here. The research question will be: How has Islam affected the development of Senegal in the recent past? I've general ideas about how Islam affects gender, social structures, and civil society, but as for writing an actual proposal...we'll see.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Little Taxi That Could
Today was the closest I have ever come to incarceration and to death. (Mom and Dad if you’re reading this, don’t worry, your daughter is alive and well, though a bit more world wise…!) Four of us adventurous and somewhat-impulsive girls decided Saturday at the beach to go to Mass at Keur Moussa, a well-known monastery and landmark near Dakar. I woke up at 7am to meet Abby, Julie, and Caitrin (they are being named here for posterity) in front of the Mosque in Mermoz, which is a half-hour walk from my house. We walk everywhere here because we have already become too stingy to pay the 600+ cfa (approximately $1.15) for a cab from Sacre Coeur III; we are outraged if anyone suggests that we pay more than 2000 cfa ($4) for a ride in the Dakar metropolitan area. What am I going to do when I get back to DC?
Anyway, it took a solid five minutes of bartering to convince the taximan to take us to the Monastery for 10,000. While this should seem out of the question in light of what I just explained, understand that the monastery is an hour away and we each paid about $5 to get there. Of course we had to plead, telling him we were students not tourists, and shake out jaay fonde a little bit, but soon enough we were off. The ride to the monastery was rather uneventful- herds of sheep along the road, fleets of cars rapides, scattered garbage, and many, many unfinished buildings. That seems to be a theme in Senegal: there is new construction everywhere- roads, houses, commercial buildings, fences, etc.- much of it funded by the organization of Islamic states who will be having a huge conference in Dakar this month. Otherwise the semi-complete structures are generally private houses, begun when the owners have a large sum of money and finished (very) slowly as they can buy supplies and make payments.
Anyway, as we got further into the countryside and passed by increasingly rural villages, the taximan became less and less sure about where he was going. We got mildly lost several times, which was not worrisome until the driver got his car stuck while attempting to make a y-turn. He pulled into a churchyard (in the middle of Mass, no less) and we heard a horrible crunch. He tried to back out, and then to pull forward, but his tires just spun. And of course all the people who would have normally come running to help him refused to budge because they were listening to the Gospel! So the cabbie calmly got out of the car and looked underneath, shook his head, got back in and floored it backwards. I can’t give you complete details because it all happened so fast, but suffice it to say that rubber burned, metal scraped, and I felt an enormous something lift my feet inside the car as we backed out. Praise God that it was not an animal, but unfortunately, it caused some damage, and as we drove away, I saw why: we had just floored it over a piece of concrete roughly the size of four cinderblocks. Needless to say, we soon pulled over to the side of the road.
The taximan pulled out a grease-stained mat and a wrench and began to assess the damage, humming softly to himself, not upset in the least. We sat dumbfounded in the car for a few minutes until we regained our composure and informed our driver that we would walk the rest of the way. The Monastery was actually just around the next bend in the road, so we made it to Mass just as the Gospel was beginning. The Mass itself was lovely- djembe drums, lots of Latin, and a wonderful homily that the priest delivered in clear, annunciated French so I could understand! -although a little anti-climactic compared to the morning’s other events. Afterward, we took pictures of the murals and frescos, made small talk with a few nuns, and headed to the gift shop where tourists were crowded around the counter shouting orders to a few monks, who slowly and deliberately filled each order. After waiting a good half-an-hour, I got my rosary, bissap jam, and homemade goat cheese (delicious!!!) And then, (God does answer prayers!) our taximan was parked near the road, polishing his car which, miraculously, was in working order! He greeted us cheerfully and we climbed in to confront the rest of our adventures…
The first order of business was to find some bread to put our cheese and jam on for lunch. The first boulangerie we came upon was huge, but the proprietor informed us matter-of-factly that the bread was “fini”- gone! However, our amazing taximan drove around asking people on the side of the road where the nearest bread store was, and we soon had several baguettes in our possession. I must admit that as we drove along, the ocean wind whipping our hair into salty tangles, I felt like a character out of a movie, or a Hemmingway book (aren’t they always escaping off to random locales to smoke, drink, and eat baguettes?) Children ran beside the car, waving and yelling “Toubab! Toubab!” as if we needed to be reminded (or told) that we are white-skinned.
Somewhere on the way to Lac Rose we drover past a police officer who, seeing four white women in a taxi, immediately blew his whistle and waved us over to the curb. First, I must explain that there are traffic guards all over the roads in Senegal because there are very few nice, paved roads, and the ones that exist are overused and extremely congested. Most of the time, the guards could care less about traffic, and nonchalantly blow their whistles, lifting an arm every once in awhile to direct renegade cars or buses. Furthermore, I use the term “police officer” lightly because here in Senegal, as in much of Africa, corruption is a very real problem. Many of them stop people, often tourists, without reason, hoping to catch them without identification so they can get bribed. It is my personal assertion that most of the traffic guards are better at this than at actually directing traffic.
So the policeman asked for the taximan’s license and he looked everywhere, and I mean everywhere for it- in the glove compartment, in the trunk, under his seat, even under his foot mat. Eventually he got out of the car and walked for awhile with the cop. I don’t know if our driver ever found his license, or if he even had one, but he told us that he had to pay the guard 2000 cfa. We laughed and joked about it, and continued on toward Lac Rose in communal humor. We practiced Wolof with the taxi driver, whose name was Modu, by asking him questions about his life. We found out that he is 31 years old (despite looking 19), was born in Touba (a city north of Dakar, where he still lives with his family), and drives his cab from 9am-11pm seven days a week. He was certainly on the quiet side, which is unusual for a Senegalese, but was nothing less than a perfect host, guide, and gentleman.
The road to Lac Rose was long, sparse, and full of potholes. That sentence accurately describes about 30-45 minutes of our journey. However, as we came upon Lac Rose, the atmosphere changed immediately. There were piles of sand and dirt all along several kilometers of the coast, and a mélange of men, women, and children were hard at work shoveling salt from the lake into big bags. I’m told the bags are eventually shipped mainly to the US to melt snow, so the next time it snows, think of me in tropical Senegal!!! We drove a third of the way around the lake until we came to a little village of vendors selling expensive touristy souvenirs that I can get for a quarter of the price at any market in Dakar. Some guy there told us that the beach was a kilometer walk over massive sand dunes, and we decided that we could use the exercise. We passed by an ATV rental place and some lazy camels saddled for rides, and commenced climbing the mountains of sand. However, we walked well over a mile and no beach was in sight so we collapsed in frustration at a random peak that overlooked the lake and at our improvised sandwiches. Abby called them gourmet- aged goat cheese and cherry chutney on fresh baguette. We make our guide come along with us so he wouldn’t starve and we talked for awhile before heading back over the dunes.
Just before we reached the parked car we found an amazing little bungalow at the end of a long path through a grove of trees. It was idyllic. There were little hammocks hanging between trees here and there, reclining chairs on the beach of crushed shells (painful but pretty), a bar, and best of all, toilets with toilet paper! We spent an hour or two drinking our (non-alcoholic) beverages, relaxing, and swimming in the lake. It’s like the dead sea- so salty you float! –but it burns your skin after awhile. I can’t really think of many more enjoyable ways to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon…
The ride home was another scary leg of our adventure, including a lengthy off-roading episode that I was wholly unprepared for. By the end of our bungalow experience we were all thoroughly satisfied, and content to depart so we began the long, bumpy ride back, but somewhere along the way (I should have realized sooner that our driver had no idea where he was going, but was haphazardly choosing roads to follow) we got lost. Not mildly lost like on the way to the Monastery, but utterly, desperately, dangerously lost. At some point, the road melted away and we were just driving over brush, sticks and leaves scraping the low-hanging fender. I cannot describe my absolute terror thinking that the taxi might just give out at any moment. There were no houses and no people anywhere in sight, and not even any roads to backtrack on. Blessedly, we came upon a man in a compound built of sticks (wearing nothing but a long shirt) who spoke briefly with our driver. He began to drive ahead, apparently following the guy’s directions, but soon got frustrated as the terrain worsened and, to my great relief, turned around. Somehow we found our way back to the lake- 40 minutes later –and got on the right road. After that we continued en route Dakar without problems, excepting of course the four times the car stalled out in the middle of the road…
I don’t really know what else to say about today’s adventure; I think it kind of escapes proper analysis or rational understanding. I had an amazing time but am trying not to reflect too much upon the day’s events because I know there is no way that things could have gone so well if I didn’t have so many people praying for me. And I know that I may not be so lucky in the future. So thank you all for your prayers- rest assured that they are much needed and much appreciated!!!
Anyway, it took a solid five minutes of bartering to convince the taximan to take us to the Monastery for 10,000. While this should seem out of the question in light of what I just explained, understand that the monastery is an hour away and we each paid about $5 to get there. Of course we had to plead, telling him we were students not tourists, and shake out jaay fonde a little bit, but soon enough we were off. The ride to the monastery was rather uneventful- herds of sheep along the road, fleets of cars rapides, scattered garbage, and many, many unfinished buildings. That seems to be a theme in Senegal: there is new construction everywhere- roads, houses, commercial buildings, fences, etc.- much of it funded by the organization of Islamic states who will be having a huge conference in Dakar this month. Otherwise the semi-complete structures are generally private houses, begun when the owners have a large sum of money and finished (very) slowly as they can buy supplies and make payments.
Anyway, as we got further into the countryside and passed by increasingly rural villages, the taximan became less and less sure about where he was going. We got mildly lost several times, which was not worrisome until the driver got his car stuck while attempting to make a y-turn. He pulled into a churchyard (in the middle of Mass, no less) and we heard a horrible crunch. He tried to back out, and then to pull forward, but his tires just spun. And of course all the people who would have normally come running to help him refused to budge because they were listening to the Gospel! So the cabbie calmly got out of the car and looked underneath, shook his head, got back in and floored it backwards. I can’t give you complete details because it all happened so fast, but suffice it to say that rubber burned, metal scraped, and I felt an enormous something lift my feet inside the car as we backed out. Praise God that it was not an animal, but unfortunately, it caused some damage, and as we drove away, I saw why: we had just floored it over a piece of concrete roughly the size of four cinderblocks. Needless to say, we soon pulled over to the side of the road.
The taximan pulled out a grease-stained mat and a wrench and began to assess the damage, humming softly to himself, not upset in the least. We sat dumbfounded in the car for a few minutes until we regained our composure and informed our driver that we would walk the rest of the way. The Monastery was actually just around the next bend in the road, so we made it to Mass just as the Gospel was beginning. The Mass itself was lovely- djembe drums, lots of Latin, and a wonderful homily that the priest delivered in clear, annunciated French so I could understand! -although a little anti-climactic compared to the morning’s other events. Afterward, we took pictures of the murals and frescos, made small talk with a few nuns, and headed to the gift shop where tourists were crowded around the counter shouting orders to a few monks, who slowly and deliberately filled each order. After waiting a good half-an-hour, I got my rosary, bissap jam, and homemade goat cheese (delicious!!!) And then, (God does answer prayers!) our taximan was parked near the road, polishing his car which, miraculously, was in working order! He greeted us cheerfully and we climbed in to confront the rest of our adventures…
The first order of business was to find some bread to put our cheese and jam on for lunch. The first boulangerie we came upon was huge, but the proprietor informed us matter-of-factly that the bread was “fini”- gone! However, our amazing taximan drove around asking people on the side of the road where the nearest bread store was, and we soon had several baguettes in our possession. I must admit that as we drove along, the ocean wind whipping our hair into salty tangles, I felt like a character out of a movie, or a Hemmingway book (aren’t they always escaping off to random locales to smoke, drink, and eat baguettes?) Children ran beside the car, waving and yelling “Toubab! Toubab!” as if we needed to be reminded (or told) that we are white-skinned.
Somewhere on the way to Lac Rose we drover past a police officer who, seeing four white women in a taxi, immediately blew his whistle and waved us over to the curb. First, I must explain that there are traffic guards all over the roads in Senegal because there are very few nice, paved roads, and the ones that exist are overused and extremely congested. Most of the time, the guards could care less about traffic, and nonchalantly blow their whistles, lifting an arm every once in awhile to direct renegade cars or buses. Furthermore, I use the term “police officer” lightly because here in Senegal, as in much of Africa, corruption is a very real problem. Many of them stop people, often tourists, without reason, hoping to catch them without identification so they can get bribed. It is my personal assertion that most of the traffic guards are better at this than at actually directing traffic.
So the policeman asked for the taximan’s license and he looked everywhere, and I mean everywhere for it- in the glove compartment, in the trunk, under his seat, even under his foot mat. Eventually he got out of the car and walked for awhile with the cop. I don’t know if our driver ever found his license, or if he even had one, but he told us that he had to pay the guard 2000 cfa. We laughed and joked about it, and continued on toward Lac Rose in communal humor. We practiced Wolof with the taxi driver, whose name was Modu, by asking him questions about his life. We found out that he is 31 years old (despite looking 19), was born in Touba (a city north of Dakar, where he still lives with his family), and drives his cab from 9am-11pm seven days a week. He was certainly on the quiet side, which is unusual for a Senegalese, but was nothing less than a perfect host, guide, and gentleman.
The road to Lac Rose was long, sparse, and full of potholes. That sentence accurately describes about 30-45 minutes of our journey. However, as we came upon Lac Rose, the atmosphere changed immediately. There were piles of sand and dirt all along several kilometers of the coast, and a mélange of men, women, and children were hard at work shoveling salt from the lake into big bags. I’m told the bags are eventually shipped mainly to the US to melt snow, so the next time it snows, think of me in tropical Senegal!!! We drove a third of the way around the lake until we came to a little village of vendors selling expensive touristy souvenirs that I can get for a quarter of the price at any market in Dakar. Some guy there told us that the beach was a kilometer walk over massive sand dunes, and we decided that we could use the exercise. We passed by an ATV rental place and some lazy camels saddled for rides, and commenced climbing the mountains of sand. However, we walked well over a mile and no beach was in sight so we collapsed in frustration at a random peak that overlooked the lake and at our improvised sandwiches. Abby called them gourmet- aged goat cheese and cherry chutney on fresh baguette. We make our guide come along with us so he wouldn’t starve and we talked for awhile before heading back over the dunes.
Just before we reached the parked car we found an amazing little bungalow at the end of a long path through a grove of trees. It was idyllic. There were little hammocks hanging between trees here and there, reclining chairs on the beach of crushed shells (painful but pretty), a bar, and best of all, toilets with toilet paper! We spent an hour or two drinking our (non-alcoholic) beverages, relaxing, and swimming in the lake. It’s like the dead sea- so salty you float! –but it burns your skin after awhile. I can’t really think of many more enjoyable ways to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon…
The ride home was another scary leg of our adventure, including a lengthy off-roading episode that I was wholly unprepared for. By the end of our bungalow experience we were all thoroughly satisfied, and content to depart so we began the long, bumpy ride back, but somewhere along the way (I should have realized sooner that our driver had no idea where he was going, but was haphazardly choosing roads to follow) we got lost. Not mildly lost like on the way to the Monastery, but utterly, desperately, dangerously lost. At some point, the road melted away and we were just driving over brush, sticks and leaves scraping the low-hanging fender. I cannot describe my absolute terror thinking that the taxi might just give out at any moment. There were no houses and no people anywhere in sight, and not even any roads to backtrack on. Blessedly, we came upon a man in a compound built of sticks (wearing nothing but a long shirt) who spoke briefly with our driver. He began to drive ahead, apparently following the guy’s directions, but soon got frustrated as the terrain worsened and, to my great relief, turned around. Somehow we found our way back to the lake- 40 minutes later –and got on the right road. After that we continued en route Dakar without problems, excepting of course the four times the car stalled out in the middle of the road…
I don’t really know what else to say about today’s adventure; I think it kind of escapes proper analysis or rational understanding. I had an amazing time but am trying not to reflect too much upon the day’s events because I know there is no way that things could have gone so well if I didn’t have so many people praying for me. And I know that I may not be so lucky in the future. So thank you all for your prayers- rest assured that they are much needed and much appreciated!!!
Friday, February 8, 2008
“Je vais acheter des provisions…”
This is how another one of my great adventures began. Maman had to go to the market to buy food and she decided (she never asks, she informs) that I should keep her company. So we waited about 45 minutes for the taxi driver, who was supposed to be arriving “toute de suite” (right now), to drive us through the winding and bumpy streets of Dakar. Maman never just does one thing at once either, so along the way we stopped at two different houses to drop off money- it was the first of the month so I can only assume that she was settling her accounts- we took Erica (my American “sister”) to her internship, and then finally we arrived at the market.
While I had been to many of the city’s markets before, I was wholly unprepared for this experience. Upon stepping out of the cab I confronted a vast encampment of vendors, and an assault of filth and stench which I was overwhelmed by. As Maman led me through the stalls, I was barraged by every type of flying insect known to man, and I had to walk carefully so as not to step in the garbage that littered the ground everywhere. All around me men, women and children stared at the Toubab trailing obediently behind her big proud Senegalese mama. Food was spread everywhere- piled into large wooden crates, stuffed into ancient wood barrels, and spread on sheets right on the ground. Never in my life have I experienced so many smells in such a short length of time. The pungent odor of garlic, the dry, woody smell of peanuts, the spiciness of tamarind, and everywhere the moist emanation of fresh vegetables.
Now I’m sure some of you are waiting for the part where I tell you that we bypassed all this folie (craziness) in favor of some haven of order and cleanliness that ressembled a grocery store. Absolutely not! Maman strutted about, appraising the produce with an air of utter indifference until she came upon something she desired. Then she would state her price and argue vehemently with the vendor, refusing to raise herprice offer, all of this in Frolof (mix of French and Wolof, which I, miraculously, am beginning to understand!) At one point we stopped at a specialty stall to buy tamarind seeds and dried fish for the cebbu jen (pronounced “cheyboo jen”), which is Senegal’s national dish, and I physically jumped a little as the boy at the stall (who looked about 15) pulled out an enormous machete and began chopping up a huge slab of fish right in front of me! As if this was not fascinating enough, maman had a mute dwarf man (literally) follow us with a huge plastic bin carrying everything she bought. At the end of the afternoon, we filled a taxi- trunk and backseat- with all the food.
Needless to say, never have I been so aware of all the work that goes into food preparation here. From the buying to the cleaning and cutting and cooking, it is definitely a job for multiple women. I have also never been so grateful for the clean food and fresh water that I take for granted every day. So the next time you sit down for a meal at Leo’s, or see that your mother has made that dish that you hate (again!), give thanks to God. Alxamdulilaay!
While I had been to many of the city’s markets before, I was wholly unprepared for this experience. Upon stepping out of the cab I confronted a vast encampment of vendors, and an assault of filth and stench which I was overwhelmed by. As Maman led me through the stalls, I was barraged by every type of flying insect known to man, and I had to walk carefully so as not to step in the garbage that littered the ground everywhere. All around me men, women and children stared at the Toubab trailing obediently behind her big proud Senegalese mama. Food was spread everywhere- piled into large wooden crates, stuffed into ancient wood barrels, and spread on sheets right on the ground. Never in my life have I experienced so many smells in such a short length of time. The pungent odor of garlic, the dry, woody smell of peanuts, the spiciness of tamarind, and everywhere the moist emanation of fresh vegetables.
Now I’m sure some of you are waiting for the part where I tell you that we bypassed all this folie (craziness) in favor of some haven of order and cleanliness that ressembled a grocery store. Absolutely not! Maman strutted about, appraising the produce with an air of utter indifference until she came upon something she desired. Then she would state her price and argue vehemently with the vendor, refusing to raise herprice offer, all of this in Frolof (mix of French and Wolof, which I, miraculously, am beginning to understand!) At one point we stopped at a specialty stall to buy tamarind seeds and dried fish for the cebbu jen (pronounced “cheyboo jen”), which is Senegal’s national dish, and I physically jumped a little as the boy at the stall (who looked about 15) pulled out an enormous machete and began chopping up a huge slab of fish right in front of me! As if this was not fascinating enough, maman had a mute dwarf man (literally) follow us with a huge plastic bin carrying everything she bought. At the end of the afternoon, we filled a taxi- trunk and backseat- with all the food.
Needless to say, never have I been so aware of all the work that goes into food preparation here. From the buying to the cleaning and cutting and cooking, it is definitely a job for multiple women. I have also never been so grateful for the clean food and fresh water that I take for granted every day. So the next time you sit down for a meal at Leo’s, or see that your mother has made that dish that you hate (again!), give thanks to God. Alxamdulilaay!
Thursday, February 7, 2008
The Condition of Men, or, The Return of the Imam
My host father came back last night from Paris, and I must say that as soon as he stepped through the door, the dynamic changed. He obviously instills a mix of fear and respect in his children because everyone was rather quiet and reserved last night. As for the Iman himself, he certainly knows he is the ultimate authority; after dinner he turned to Erica and said, with no introduction or attempt at graciousness: “Donne-moi de l’eau. J’ai soif” (Go get me some water- I’m thirsty). Now, I don’t want you to get the impression that the Imam is a rude or unkind person, he is just used to that kind of service, not only because of his leadership position within the community, but also by virtue of the fact that he is older than us. There is a fairly rigid hierarchy of age here in Senegal; elders can ask/tell young people to do something and they do it without delay or question.
Anyway, while reflecting upon that scene, it occurred to me that perhaps the reason the Imam changed the atmosphere so much is because he doesn’t really belong. It seems contradictory, but I will try to explain. Men with multiple wives in Senegal have to follow strict rules about how to treat their families: they must treat all of their wives and children equally, giving them the same amount of money and staying at each wife’s house equal amounts of time. In practice that means the Iman must uproot and resituate himself every two days. I noticed this morning that he uses the common bathroom instead of the one in Maman’s room, which apparently is reserved exclusively for her. He also spends more time in my brother Tahirou’s room than in my mother’s room. To me, it seems a lot like moving from hotel to hotel, or living out of a suitcase, and I know I would be thoroughly discontent if I lived like that. In retrospect, I guess the change in atmosphere was a formality born more out of reverence for and deference to a practiced religious figure than a father. I haven’t had a chance to ask my siblings how they feel about Papa, but I doubt they feel the same way I do about my daddy (Love you Dad!)
So perhaps polygamy isn’t as great as most men imagine it to be…
Anyway, while reflecting upon that scene, it occurred to me that perhaps the reason the Imam changed the atmosphere so much is because he doesn’t really belong. It seems contradictory, but I will try to explain. Men with multiple wives in Senegal have to follow strict rules about how to treat their families: they must treat all of their wives and children equally, giving them the same amount of money and staying at each wife’s house equal amounts of time. In practice that means the Iman must uproot and resituate himself every two days. I noticed this morning that he uses the common bathroom instead of the one in Maman’s room, which apparently is reserved exclusively for her. He also spends more time in my brother Tahirou’s room than in my mother’s room. To me, it seems a lot like moving from hotel to hotel, or living out of a suitcase, and I know I would be thoroughly discontent if I lived like that. In retrospect, I guess the change in atmosphere was a formality born more out of reverence for and deference to a practiced religious figure than a father. I haven’t had a chance to ask my siblings how they feel about Papa, but I doubt they feel the same way I do about my daddy (Love you Dad!)
So perhaps polygamy isn’t as great as most men imagine it to be…
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Happy Mardi Gras!
Today I'd like to ponder the fact that more Muslims that Christians celebrate Christmas and Mardi Gras in Senegal. Yes that's right. With a population that's 95% Muslim, at least half of whom celebrate Christmas, Muslims win by a large majority. Why? I've gotten varying answers, but they all run along the same theme: tolerance, solidarity, inclusion, cultural homogeneity. Regardless of religion, family and food are the center of life here in Senegal and both Christmas and Mardi Gras are a chance to gather with family and friends and celebrate.
This morning I went with my host mother to my little sister's Mardi Gras celebration. She attends a large private school in downtown Dakar and today there were no classes. Instead she, along with all of her classmates, dressed up, posed for pictures, and paraded around the school. It was like Halloween with more noise, more food, and definitely better costumes! They organized kids by costume and there was an absolute entourage of superheros- I counted 5 spidermen, 6 supermen, 4 zoros, a Mr. Incredible and a myriad of others. There was a parade of little brides and grooms too- only 7 and these kids have marriage on the mind... A lot of kids were dressed in the traditional clothing of Senegalese ethnic groups (Djolla, Sereer, etc.) or of other African countries. My sister, for example,dressed up as a Burundi woman. But these are not simple store-bought costumes; they are custom-designed and fitted from the fabric bought specially at the market to the real jewels the little girls wear to the intense makeup that they wear!
There were professional photographers, like at the marriage I attended (who make you haggle with them to buy photos of yourself) and each child got an individual picture. Then they cranked up the music- they played 80's music like "What is Love?", 90's stuff like Vanga Boys (anyone remember that song?), and even some Cher- and the children paraded around. I think the funniest thing I saw were a bunch of 11 year old boys dressed as old Muslim men in bubus and headcaps, complete with canes, jumping and dancing around to the mbalax music. When the parade was over they brought out food for everyone- parents, teachers, and students alike- and fed us a MEAL of cookies, cake and sweets. I know Africa is known for it's famine and I admit there are a lot of beggars on the streets, but I honestly wonder if anyone ever goes hungry here. Even the people who live on the streets have little gas stove contraptions that they use o cook rice and share with others who don't have enough to eat. The charity and comaraderie here never cease to amaze me. But that is a post for another time...
This morning I went with my host mother to my little sister's Mardi Gras celebration. She attends a large private school in downtown Dakar and today there were no classes. Instead she, along with all of her classmates, dressed up, posed for pictures, and paraded around the school. It was like Halloween with more noise, more food, and definitely better costumes! They organized kids by costume and there was an absolute entourage of superheros- I counted 5 spidermen, 6 supermen, 4 zoros, a Mr. Incredible and a myriad of others. There was a parade of little brides and grooms too- only 7 and these kids have marriage on the mind... A lot of kids were dressed in the traditional clothing of Senegalese ethnic groups (Djolla, Sereer, etc.) or of other African countries. My sister, for example,dressed up as a Burundi woman. But these are not simple store-bought costumes; they are custom-designed and fitted from the fabric bought specially at the market to the real jewels the little girls wear to the intense makeup that they wear!
There were professional photographers, like at the marriage I attended (who make you haggle with them to buy photos of yourself) and each child got an individual picture. Then they cranked up the music- they played 80's music like "What is Love?", 90's stuff like Vanga Boys (anyone remember that song?), and even some Cher- and the children paraded around. I think the funniest thing I saw were a bunch of 11 year old boys dressed as old Muslim men in bubus and headcaps, complete with canes, jumping and dancing around to the mbalax music. When the parade was over they brought out food for everyone- parents, teachers, and students alike- and fed us a MEAL of cookies, cake and sweets. I know Africa is known for it's famine and I admit there are a lot of beggars on the streets, but I honestly wonder if anyone ever goes hungry here. Even the people who live on the streets have little gas stove contraptions that they use o cook rice and share with others who don't have enough to eat. The charity and comaraderie here never cease to amaze me. But that is a post for another time...
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