“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!