Lesson Learned

What sustains us, as humans? Work puts food on the table, work can challenge us to grow in different ways, but what makes us feel "whole"? I say, it's the people in my life at any given moment who I love, and who love me in return.

Anyone who thinks his wreckless work ethic that neglects his own health (mental or physical) is a product of his own talent is sadly delusioned. The only reason he might be able to operate self-destructively for long periods of time is that somebody is sustaining him through it. Somebody there to say, "Stop, breathe." Somebody to bitch to. Somebody who knows when you want a latte, or when you REALLY need a beer. Somebody to make you laugh at your own frustrations.

I've been doing a lot of reflecting on differences in lifestyle between Senegalese people, myself, and U.S. Americans as a whole (surprise, surprise). Since my arrival here in Senegal, I appreciate even more the people who support me on a daily basis. Family is the center of everything here, and everyone IS family. Whether you are friends since childhood or if five generations ago you had a relative who came from the same ethnic group as somebody else, they're considered family and they're a part of your support network. My host brother Momo once explained: if one person has a problem, it quickly becomes everyone's problem, and everyone comes together to offer their support. I see and respect that value of human support more and more as my time in Senegal continues, and I intend to continue to value those who support me on a daily basis, and do my best to offer the same support to those I care about.

Everyone needs relationships and human support, even if they live in the states, where everyone is supposed to be able to make it on their own.

Richard Toll and Saint Louis Photos

La Fete des Moutons

Tabaski: a health inspector’s worst nightmare.  The seven goats were kept on the terrace the few days before the party- so their poop and piss was everywhere.  This morning, each goat was dragged down the stairs and slaughtered, then their tasty dead flesh was brought back up to the terrace, where it was “cleaned” and cooked.  Don’t worry, they cleaned up the poop before they started cooking.  Kind of.  Well, it was pushed into the corners so it was mostly out of the way.

And the meat was cleaned before it was cooked.  When I say clean, I mean we rinsed off the meat in a slightly soapy bucket of water.  That’s right, yours truly (the would-be vegetarian) was right in the thick of it- cutting off the fat, rinsing the turds off, and other delightful activities.  I only got grossed out once, when they peeled off a layer of skin and the fat just melted onto my hands.

I’ve never seen so much blatant cross-contamination while simultaneously eating such good food (in case you were wondering, grilled liver isn’t half bad). It wasn’t uncommon to see a woman cleaning the raw meat, dunk her hand in a bowl of water (no soap), then immediately begin eating a grilled rib with her bare hands.  Also, remember the lingering poop chunks?  They were quickly transported throughout the area by hitchhiking on the bottoms of shoes.  I cringed every time one of the kids stepped over the plate we were eating from.  Not to mention the time that a handful of onions fell on the floor, they were quickly rinsed with water and thrown back on the heap.  No soap.  Despite how much I enjoyed those mustardy spicy onions, I couldn’t eat any more after that.

I ventured downstairs twice.  The first time, they were just beginning the slaughtering.  I stayed just long enough to hear the choking of the goat and the gurgling of his blood after the cut his throat open, and to see another twitching as the last of his blood was dripping out.  The second, I descended to find a neat pile of organs and a head where there used to be a goat.  The smell was disgusting.  After that, I definitely kept to the upstairs. It should be mentioned that almost no part of the goat goes to waste.  Even the stomach and intestines are cleaned and saved to be cooked later in some couscous dish that I could wait a while before trying.  And the heads are skinned and kept for making a certain kind of soup. 

After all the meat was cleaned and distributed, lunch was served very late.  In fact, the other students had already finished their meals, put on their traditional clothes, and came to visit my house before lunch was ready.  So they were forced to eat a second enormous lunch, followed by homemade bissap and ditakh juice and fruit salad.  After eating, I changed into my Tabaski clothes and went to go visit Ellen and Lauren’s families.  This is the part of the holiday where everyone gets super dressed up in traditional clothes and visits the homes of all of their neighbors and ask forgiveness for any sins they may have done, and to offer forgiveness in return.  Small children also visit other families, but for a slightly different reason- they ask for and are generally given small gifts of money.

Turns out that it’s also accepted to postpone this last part of the holiday.  The rest of my family didn’t even bother to get dressed up in their Tabaski clothes after dinner because they were too tired.  What’s so tiring about killing seven sheep, cleaning up the mess, and managing to cook a feast all in one day?

The rest of Tabaski was relaxed.  There weren’t many people in the streets, and we spent the evening attempting to make Ataaya at Ellen’s house and watching Matilda on Lauren’s laptop.  As Ellen’s mom told us, « Tous le monde fait ce qu’il veut à Tabaski. » Which translates roughly to, « Everyone does what they want on Tabaski. »

I walked away from the whole experience feeling well fed, proud that I was able to help out, and only mildly grossed out.  However, I am definitely returning to vegetarianism when I return to the states with the flexibility to partake in forms of meat consumption that are local and humane in nature.  I realized that, while I have no problem consuming meat after it has been transformed into a neatly cut, spiced, and cooked part of my meal; I do not have the stomach to even watch the act of taking an animal’s life, much less doing it myself.   If I cannot manage to see this part of the meat production process, I can’t help but feel I have no business partaking in its end product (even if it is delicious).

Happy Tabaski, everyone!  Excuse me for the wrongs I have done against you, and may we all live to enjoy another year together.

Traditional Senegalese Dance

One of the last activities we did in Richard Toll was a village celebration at a Wolof village about 30 minutes away by car.  We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into- when we arrived the drums were loud, and all of the children surrounded the car and greeted us as we got out of the car.  When I say greet, I mean they were all screaming and laughing and shaking our hands, which sometimes got a little out of hand with the more aggressive kids who tried pulling our arms a little too hard, or who got a little too handsy.

Once we made it through the overwhelmingly friendly crowd, we were given seats in the large circle surrounding the drummers.  It was obvious that our presence was the focus of attention- the drummers kept asking us to get up and youssa (the latest popular Senegalese dance) in the center of the circle, and other women would dance across the circle just to flay their peignes at our cameras.

The music was powerful and unrelenting, and the dancing was fervent.  My jaw dropped at the intensity and passion with which the women moved their bodies. The spirit was infectious, we did end up getting pulled into the center of the circle and making fools of ourselves awkwardly bumbling around compared to the Senegalese.  And it was awesome!!

Saint Louis Fish Market

Below is a short clip I took from the window of the van as we were driving in Saint Louis past the fish market next to the Senegal River.  Not only does this give a sense of the quality of life here, but notice all of the bumps and jerks in the video.  Its a result of the poor quality of the unpaved roads that are the norm in Senegalese cities.

Langue de Barbarie

A national wildlife reserve best known for its diverse variety of migratory bird species called Langue de Barbarie we visited while in Saint Louis. Our guide told us we were visiting at a time of year when most birds were still up north; there will be far more varieties in a couple months. The landscape here is stunning (not that thats anything that stops locals from dumping trash on the beach), we saw beautiful white sandy beaches and clear water.  The park was also FULL of crabs, especially near water.  I couldn't believe how many there were!  I took this next video standing on a small foot bridge-

Richard Toll: Part DEUX

In my last entry, I mainly focused on my family life in Richard Toll.  Now, I'm going to try and explain what we were doing with our time when we were away from our families.  As I mentioned before, the time spent in Richard Toll basically had the same daily schedule.  Wake up 7:45, shower, eat breakfast, get picked up around 8:45, go wait (15 minutes to an hour) for our tour guide of the day to arrive at USAID, drive to the tour site, try and understand the French tours, return to our host families for a two hour lunch, get picked up again for either homework time or another tour, and return home by 7 to eat dinner around 8:30 and sleep by 10.  Meanwhile, my stomach was fighting every step of the way- I reliably had diarrhea every other day.  I don’t know why I had so many issues in Richard Toll compared to Dakar, but something was definitely not sitting right with my body.

The places we toured include a fish farm, water distribution facilities, farms (tomatoes, sugar, rice, manioc/cassava root, and corn), rice and sugar processing facilities, a dairy processing facility, a center for monitoring quality of seeds, Parc de Gueumbeul, Langue de Barbarie, a Peulh village, and a Wolof village celebration.

In general, I found the tours of farming facilities and factories to be less than thrilling.  In general, each farmer/tour guide focused on techniques for increasing their productivity and some of the challenges they face in realizing maximum profits (think irrigation/planting techniques and detailed explanations of industrial processes and machinery).  That was interesting to hear, but I was more interested in learning about how these farms and organizations played a role in the bigger picture of the socio-economic situation of the Senegal River Valley, like: What are the pros/cons of being a smaller scale farmer versus a large industrial cultivator?  How are local economies affected by all of this industrial activity?  What are the environmental costs?  Who has access to these resources, and who doesn’t?

Eventually, I was able to satisfy some of my curiosity.  Our final assignment was a 15 minute presentation (in French!) on a topic of our choice.  I decided to take advantage of the assignment to do my own research on the implications of the two major dams on the Senegal River.  The short 20 minutes a man took to quickly explain the purpose and creation of the dam was not sufficient for all the questions I had.  I knew there had to be more to the story, and sure enough that’s what I found.   There are tons of socio-economic, environmental, and health related consequences to the construction of the dams, and none of them are simple.  Let’s take agriculture for example.  Yes, the implementation of the dams has resulted in dramatic irrigated agricultural growth; however, this growth does not equally affect all local populations (like the Pulaar people, who depend on their grazing livestock, not farming).  This farming has harmful effects as well, such as the pollution it produces in the same river where other people drink and bathe.  Even something that sounds as simple as the creation of additional irrigated land for farming and increased economic productivity of a developing country is not entirely “good”.

I could go for a while on that rant, but in the interest of not boring you to death, I won’t.

Saint Louis

We spent two nights and three days at Saint Louis after the first five days in Richard Toll.  Those might have been my favorite few days of the trip, because we had more variety in our daytime activities.  We stayed at a place called Hotel Sindone, which was lovely and very French.  The best part was definitely the food we ate there, we were each served a small basket of bread (including a croissant, a chunk of lemony bread, part of a baguette, and a chocolate pastry), a sweet crepe, fruit juice, REAL coffee, and a bowl of fruit.  The first day, we arrived in Saint Louis, left our luggage in our hotel rooms, and walked into town to get lunch.  I was delighted to find out we were having lunch at a middle-eastern restaurant, where I was happy with my hummous, vegetables, and labneh sandwich.

 After that, we made a few stops around town, including the shop of an older, slightly eccentric artist.  The old man was old and scrappy looking, and loved talking about the work he has done.  At one point, he pulled out a huge piece of painted plywood with a copy of the Mona Lisa stapled in the middle and Wolof writing filling all the empty space.  He told us of his almost decade long obsession with the Mona Lisa, and all of the research he has conducted in order to analyze the painting he finds so intriguing.  He also showed us some smaller paintings featuring tidbits of Wolof wisdom.  My personal favorite was a simple painting of a stick figure in a prostrate prayer position on what looks like a rug.  The coordinating Wolof phrase translates to something like “Without clothes, prayer becomes scandalous.”

Africans are fun Muslims.

We returned to the hotel with just enough time to venture into town by foot again (this time without Prof Diallo) to look for a purse for Lauren and gifts for host families.  Of course, we had to bargain for each purchase.  I did pretty well, setting my price for some small bags made of beautiful African fabric at 500 CFA (1$) each.  Not too shabby!  Happy with our purchases, we returned for dinner at Hotel Sindone, which was another wonderful dining experience: perfectly seasoned carrot bisque followed by a main dish of a sautéed fish fillet and vegetables, and finished with a perfect portion of vanilla ice cream and raspberry sorbet (the combination became something along the lines of strawberry shortcake).  The meal would’ve been good by US standards, but within the context of the meals our Senegalese families typically prepare (rice, meat, and heavy sauce), it was even more of a novelty.

The next day, we awoke to the same charming breakfast, left in the van to pick up a new guide, and visited Parc de Gueumbeul, a piece of land reserved to repopulate and observe African wildlife species that are endangered.  In the front of the park were two large fenced-in areas to host the tortoises; one area for the babies, and one for those that were grown.  I was surprised to see our tour guide walk right up to one of the gates, unhook the latch, and walk right in.  We followed him, and stood right next to the huge tortoise as he talked about the animal (Lauren even sat on him!). He told us some interesting facts about tortoises: they hibernate for 6 months at a time, and can live up to 200 years. They are endangered because they are poached for their supposed aphrodisiac powers.  Some Senegalese people eat their meat in the hopes of improving their sex lives, because the tortoises have long-lasting sex, or as our English-speaking guide so eloquently explained, “They make copulation for 3 hours of time.”

We continued our tour of the park on foot, and we saw a handful of singes rouges (red monkeys), a gazelle, some distant relative of the antelope with huge horns, and some ospreys (a predatory bird) along the way.

The rest of our stay in Saint Louis was a series of more delicious meals and various walks through the city.  The biggest way we could see that Saint Louis is different than Dakar is the colonial construction of the buildings and that the streets of Saint Louis are MUCH cleaner than those of Dakar.  We even saw our first trash can on the side of the road!

We returned to Richard Toll for the second half of our two week trip, and for the most part conducted more visits of agricultural facilities and were given time to create our final presentations which I mentioned earlier, that is until the weekend rolled around.  The final experiences I had in Richard Toll were also the most interesting.  And that, I am going to save for the next update.

Sorry for the delay in getting all this posted- it’s a lot to condense.  I hope Mom will forgive me J

Grosses Bises,

gk

Richard Toll: Part I

We left for Saint Louis on Tuesday afternoon right after lunch.  All of my brothers dramatically claimed that my presence would be sorely missed, and that two weeks was far too long.  One even instructed me to “become sick” after the first week so I would have to come back to Dakar.  How sweet…?

Before the car ride, we decided to pay homage to our American roots the way any good ole patriot prepares for a road trip: we loaded up on candy and snacks, including suckers, my treat of choice.  Of course we also shared with our professor, who claimed the four M&M’s he ate totally spoiled his appetite for dinner.  Poppycock, I say.  (You may be wondering where we found American candy like M&M’s… they were given to us by a lovely gentleman named David who was also studying at the Baobab Center to prepare for his new position within the military somewhere in Africa.  He knew he would have left Dakar by the time we returned from St Louis, so he so generously showered us with parting gifts of American candy.  I swear, no Snickers has ever tasted so good.)  The drive was amazing: it was the first time we had technically left Dakar city limits.  The countryside was flatflatflat the whole way, and the farther north we drove, the more desert-like it became.  It was interesting to see clusters of huts and grazing sheep, goats, cows, and donkeys along the road.  I am reminded of my love of travel.  The open road and it's promise of new destinations calls to me more than a single city ever could.

After the whole four hours it took to arrive in Saint Louis and then pick up two Senegalese students who would be accompanying us on our trip (they were two girls named Khadi and Fatou), we continued another hour before arriving in the smaller town we would actually be staying in.  It’s called Richard Toll, and it’s somewhere between a village and a big city.  Because we arrived so late that night, we spent the night at a hotel, eating dinner before going to bed.  Mmmm, nothing like half a rotisserie chicken right before bed!

The following few days had a similar schedule- in the morning we eat breakfast with our host families, are picked up to go on a tour of some aspect of agricultural production near Richard Toll (including tours of rice and sugar cane fields, irrigation systems for each, the water pumps for the surrounding communities), around 1:00 in the afternoon, we are dropped off at our host families for lunch, and then we are picked up again around 3:00 for more tours until we return again for the night around 7:00pm.

It’s the most relaxed way I’ve ever gone on a trip.  Sometimes I appreciate the luxury of being able to relax and take in the everyday aspects of life in a different place, and sometimes I’m frustrated with what feels like wasted time (for example, even though we are picked up around 8:30am, we often wait in the van for our guide to be ready until around 9:30 or 10am).

My host family’s last name is Sowdo Fall, and consists of an older retired couple.  All the children have long since grown and moved out.  I think it’s also a polygamous family, with the other wife living in another house, but I haven’t heard her mentioned at all yet.  Also living here is a maid and the guard with his family (a wife and two adorable kids).  Even though we don’t really have any language in common, they seem to all be gentle, kind, and patient.  Sometimes I wonder if the children don’t work too hard: often my host mom will yell for them whenever she’s sitting in the living room and she doesn’t feel like walking to her room for her cell phone, locking the car, or answering the door.  They also help with laundry, dishes, and bringing out food during mealtimes.  The boy especially, who is probably about 12 years old, seems incredibly mature for his age, and always doing something helpful (like pulling water from the well or trying to bring out extra pillows to make me comfortable).  I keep buying them little candies and gifts just because I want to see them be kids and SMILE.

Living with a host family in Richard Toll has been very different than living with my family in Dakar.  I think part of the reason is that I am only here for two weeks (as opposed to six months), so I’m definitely more of a visitor, and less of a part of the family.  That means it’s even less acceptable for me to do radical things like, oh, I don’t know, wash my own dishes or cut my own food or not eat a meal because I have diarrhea.  My family in Richard Toll is far more insistent, even as I’m in the process of eating, they command “Lekkal, lekkal!” (“Eat, eat!” in Wolof) if I’m not doing so quickly enough.  Madame Sowdo also gave me a pretty head scarf the other night, and has even cooked eggs for breakfast a few times.  Her hospitality is wonderful.

Here are some other interesting differences:

·         Language: Aside from the older couple, everyone here speaks Pulaar, so my French is lost on them, and even the Wolof I’ve been learning only goes so far.

·         Food: This family has strong Mauritanian roots, so many of the dishes I’ve been eating are more Mauritanian (which means more Arabic influence) than true Senegalese dishes.  They also don’t use spoons to eat like my family in Dakar, so I’ve been learning how to eat with my hand, which has been interesting and harder than I expected.  I’m always dropping rice on myself and have food on my face the majority of the time, so I’m kind of like the mealtime entertainment for anyone.

·         Rural Life: There is a backyard here, that’s right- OPEN SPACE AND GREEN THINGS- including a Mango tree that everyone sits under during the day to hide from the sun.  There is also a lot less pollution here- which means the night sky is absolutely gorgeous.  Being more rural also means I’m a lot farther away from boutiques and other shops, so I’m a lot more dependent on my family for anything I might need.

·         Electricity: There isn’t any.  Not at my house, anyway.

·         Personal Space: My room is half bedroom and half storage space for kitchen items.  Often I wake up in the morning to my host mom or the maid rummaging through boxes on the other side of my room.

The moral of this story is that I’m pleasantly surprised to find myself getting to know and like my host family despite language barriers and the relatively short duration of my stay.  I think I will be happy to return to my Dakar host family when the time comes- I miss having people my own age to spend time with and being able to talk with the people around me.

Study Abroad "W" Curve Update:
I finally got my "Holy shit, I'm in Africa!" goosebumps that I think I've been waiting for since the day I've arrived in Dakar.  I haven't been unhappy during my stay here, but it also hasn't quite felt real to me yet.  I've been sightseeing and exploring and talking and learning and in general having a blast.  But for some reason, I have still felt pretty neutral about the country of Senegal.  It's been interesting to learn about, and the people have been warm and welcoming, but a large part of me has just been occupying time until I get to go back home to Michigan.  Last night when my host mom showed me the breathtaking view of the night sky from the roof of her home, something in me just clicked.  I was absolutely, completely content to be there on that roof in that moment and at the prospect of being in Senegal for the next 4 and a half months. 

Wishing the same peace and contentment wherever and whoever you are,
gk

close but no keur moussa

Sunday morning our group woke up bright and early to go visit the monastery with the goat cheese and gregorion chants I mentioned last time.  Cisco woke up to walk us to the place we needed to catch bus 71 headed out of town. The ticket there and back only cost about 1 dollar for each of us, and the bus ride took about an hour. When we arrived, we were confused to see that we were in a bustling town, not the isolated rural setting the travel books described. After asking a few locals where we could find the monastery, we were directed approximately 100m down the road, where a large church was located. The chirch looked more like a barn than anything else: a huge open space surrounded by cement walls, and birds flying in and out of the rafters. We quietly entered, took our seats in the back of the room, and waited for mass to start-

I just smashed an albino cockroach that scurried under our table with my flip flop.  Ew.

So, yes, we attended a Catholic mass, and Ellen even took communion.  After the end of the mass, we looked around for the renowned goat cheese, but didn't find anything.  If this was a monastery, I had no idea where the monks lived, or why this would be a desirable destination for travellers. It was interesting to visit and see mass conducted with no hymnal books, and with "stained glass" windows that looked more like they were plain glass colored in with Crayola markers.  The music they played was beautiful, lots of drums and the cora (a guitar-like instrument, except bigger and with many more strings), but we didn't hear any Gregorian chants- the singing was just like any other Catholic choir I've heard before.

Turns out there is another suburb of Dakar nowhere near the monastery that is called Keur Massar (the monastery is Keur Moussa), and that's where we ended up.

What happened is I asked my host brothers where I could catch the bus to Keur Moussa, but they insisted that I meant to say Keur Massar. And because I didn't know any better, I assumed that I had read the guide book wrong. I mean, how many Keur M..ss.. places are there near Dakar? Lesson learned- never assume something is self-evident when it comes to travelling.

All in all, it was a pretty cheap lesson that only took up one Sunday morning, and was still something worth seeing.  (Did I mention on the bus ride back, we saw a group of people stuffing a live sheep into the trunk of a taxi to transport it?)  Don't worry, we're not giving up, and are going to try again when we return from Saint Louis.

An apple a day keeps the constipation away.

I've reached an important milestone. I had my first normal poop today. Alhamdulilaay! My strategy? Lots of apples and fiber supplements. I guess rice is a pretty strong "stopper".

Other than that, this week has been relatively uneventful, "relatively" being the operative word. Ellen, Lauren, and I have done more navigating of the city on our own, without Senegalese guides this week. We've bargained hard for some good taxi prices, we've had our first taxi break down mid-ride (don't worry, we arrived at our destination safely because our driver hailed another taxi for us, and didn't charge us anything), and I almost got hit by a bus. There isn't even a real story with that last one, just a classic case of Grace-not-looking-where-she's-going.

Academically, I feel like this week might be the calm before the storm. We had three classes cancelled and haven't had any significant homework due. Next Tuesday, however, we leave with one of our professors to go north to Saint Louis (an old colonial city, and the first capital of Senegal) for two weeks. We will each be staying with a different host family during our time there and touring various agricultural and production facilities along the Senegal River.

Upon our return to Dakar, we have two days before our "ICRP Prospectus" is due: 3 pages written in French detailing the aspect of Senegalese culture we would like to observe/investigate for our ICRP. ICRP stands for Inter-Cultural Research Project, and it will be what I will be spending my last two months in Dakar working on. It could take almost any form, but the key elements in my experience must include learning something that will benefit me later in life, closely experiencing an aspect of Senegalese culture, and then comparing it to the States. Also, three other courses have smaller similar assignments as final projects we have to begin working on soon. All include finding a location to make observations and conducting research on the topic.

I feel overwhelmed by all of the projects. There is by no means a lack of interesting subjects I can study, but at this point in the process, there are so many unknowns swirling around in my head and the amount of work seems enormous. More on the direction of these projects later---

I'm really looking forward to this weekend. On Sunday, we will take a short day trip to attend mass at a monastery just outside of Dakar. The monastery is famous for its Gregorian chants (think Monty Python, Dad) and goat cheese they produce to earn their living. This peculiar combination sounds very appealing to me, but I am also looking forward to a quiet Sunday morning, and a chance to relax and gather my thoughts.

Until next,

gk

l'Ile de Madeline

Check out my pictures from this weekend- instead of writing another entry, I wrote descriptions on the pictures that tell some stories.

Enjoy!

The day I was too pissed to wear pants.

You know how some days you're in such an awful mood with nothing to blame other than waking up on the wrong side of the bed? This was one of those days. I was just pissed to have been disturbed from my uncommonly restful sleep. Then, I realized my sheets were soaked with my own sweat. Fine, I thought, I'll just take a nice, refreshing shower to cool off. One of my brothers must have been taking a shower at the same time, because the water came out of the shower-head in a depressing trickle. I think the added heat of being in the tiny, enclosed, humid space of the bathroom made me sweat even more than the water could wash away. I dried off, got dressed, put on sunscreen and was ready to meet my buds to go to the island for the day. Then I touched my face and realized that none of the sunscreen had actually been absorbed into my skin. I was sweating so much, I actually felt like my face was melting. Disgusted, I ripped off all my clothes and flopped on my bed in only my swimsuit- already overwhelmed with the day even though it was only 9am.

I decided the only possible way I could survive the rest of the day would be if I wore shorts. I KNOW that its disrespectful as a woman to show my thighs- but I also KNEW that I was at my wit's absolute end for whatever reason. So I took my leaky face, scandalous shorts, dorky keens, and I bravely marched them downstairs to say goodbye to the host family. I got strange looks from everyone, and one of the older women pointed at the approximate thigh region on my body and commented, "C'est jolie comme ca! (It is pretty like that)" I have no idea if she meant my pasty, hairy legs, or if she meant my worn-out running shorts. Both seemed equally unlikely, so I just point at myself and said emphatically, "RIEN est jolie ici. (NOTHING is pretty here.)" To which the entire room busted up laughing.

Look out Dakar, I got thunder thighs, and I'm NOT afraid to bare them!

a quiet weekend

This weekend was very boring. Lauren, Ellen, and I decided it would be a lazy one so we could catch up on some much needed sleep. Saturday we woke up with plans to go to the beach, but I got sick- I slept the whole day, emerging from my room only to show my face at mealtimes. I couldn't eat no matter how much my brothers insisted "You MUST eat to get better!" I have a sneaking suspicion they meant to say "You MUST eat if you want to vom!" I can tell I'm truly adapting, because they're beginning to irritate my like a true brother might. And I say that affectionately.

Sunday morning I woke up feeling recharged and refreshed from a day off and went on a short run along the Corniche (the road that runs along the ocean) with Lauren and Ellen. I don't know if I have talked about this phenomenon yet, but I'm too lazy to re-read previous entries. Sorry if I'm repeating:

Working out here is rather bizarre. Many women "run", but what they really mean is that they "power walk", and many of these women are Muslim and wear scarves around their head, long pants, and sleeves to maintain their modesty. I have no idea how they aren't all passed out on the side of the road like dead flies: I can hardly breathe in my t-shirt and shorts! Also, men and women alike workout in the kinds of clothes my high school cross coach would cringe to see. Flip flops are common, and so are polo shirts or other clothes us Americans would never consider as athletic wear.

We finished our walk back with three nice, refreshing coconuts--- er, Ellen and Lauren thought so anyway. The coconuts are sold by men who push dingy carts piled with them. When you buy one, the man first takes his large knife and chops away and creates a small hole on the top of the coconut, where you put the straw to drink the coconut milk. The liquid is surprisingly clear for the heavy, milky, bitter taste it has. After you drink the liquid, the vendor chops the coconut in half and you eat the true "coconut insides". For me, the coconut was neither appetizing nor refreshing. I was quite disappointed, but also glad that we didn't pay any money to buy them. A nice older runner paid for them for us because we ABSOLUTELY needed to have one for each of us.

Later Sunday, I received some difficult news from home that made me realize how totally helpless I am to my friends and family while I am in Africa. I wanted nothing more than to jump on the next plane home- but given the impossibility of that sentiment, I cried to Mom and Dad, adding to their already great stress. It's not possible to really help from this position, but I realized I'm certainly able to harm. I'm grateful to my parents for finding the patience to tolerte my outrageous phone call nonetheless.

Monday morning was a vast improvement. With the light of day, things didn't seem so bad, and I even received a text from Dad relieving some of my concerns. Plus it helped that the power (thus, the fan) stayed on for the first entire night!

Now I'm sick again, and was told (along with Lauren, who unfortunately shares my symptoms) by two different professors that "You must be happy and energetic in my class, you must not be sick!" Apparently professors are super perceptive with only three students in a class. I think that the worst possible thing to say to this sick person is exactly that. I feel like shit, I've been listening to French for 8 hours, and no, I'm not going to smile!!

Even though my head is filled with snot and nausea, today was the first time I came home and felt a sense of relief. Today, it wasn't a daunting task to make little conversations with each person and struggle to find something to talk about. Sitting on the terrace with my brothers, I was happy to ramble about my sister who I'm so proud of (and worried about!) and pass pictures around. I also had a surprisingly neutral conversation about polygamy. After I expressed my views on the subject, he just said, "Wow". I thought he was offended by my liberal and strong opinions since it is common for Senegalese men to have more than one wife, but he elaborated, "Just then, you spoke very well. That was really great french!"

Totally made my evening. Now I can attempt to stomach dinner, take some good 'ole nyquil, and SLEEP happy.

Managed Chaos

So, it’s been awhile. Quite a bit has happened since my last entry, including the sad demise of my computer charger (also the reason why I have been incommunicado).
Today, just when I was beginning to appreciate the quality of Senegalese home cooking, I had Suppa Kanjay. This dish has made everything else I’ve tried up until now seem heavenly in comparison. It’s an okra-based stew with chopped seafood served on top of white rice. I hardly notice the vast array of bones, scales, and other unidentifiables also present- it’s the viscousy part of okra used as the base for this dish that gets me. I imagine this is what a “booger stew” would taste like.

Last Saturday we spent the day at Ngor Island with Cisco, Thalisto, John, and Ibou. We had to wait a couple hours in Lauren’s house for the sudden downpour of rain to stop before we could leave, and even then the day was overcast and windy. But don’t worry; we didn’t let a silly thing like lightning or unpleasant weather stop us from going to an island! Turns out the weather was the least of our worries. The boats that transport people to and from the island are large and sturdy enough in and of themselves, it’s the incredible number of people they cram in each one that made me think the life jacket they gave us was more than just a precaution. In order to board the boat, we waded into knee-high water and awkwardly clambered over the side while trying not to get our shoes, purses, or our skirts wet. Unsurprisingly, I immediately got soaked up to the chest in saltwater. Once aboard, I stepped from one high bench to another until I reached the back. This description is entirely more orderly than the actual process. Ellen’s description of “managed chaos” is very fitting if you recognize that the only way anything was “managed” is that everyone wore a life preserver. Finally, I was relieved to be able to sit down. I hardly even noticed the knees pinned against my back or the people I didn’t know whose laps I were kind of sitting on. When it seemed like they couldn’t fit any more people into the boat, five more stepped aboard. My jaw dropped. Even though we were on a fifty foot long boat, the side edge was a mere couple inches from the water level. Miraculously, the engine was able to propel the huge load there and back, and we all made it in one piece.

It's not me, it's the rice.

So today my host brother, Facary (Fa-kah-ree), and Ellen went running. The whole ordeal was quite scandalous- what with Ellen and I being toobab women AND wearing running shorts. A couple of guys even yelled at Facary, "Hey, you runnin' with two toobabs!" We ran down a road that follows the coast of Dakar, and I'm pretty sure we went a total of six kilometers. During the whole run, Facary never even lost his breath. He told me he does 200 pushups a night. Disgusting. But not uncommon among the freakishly fit Senegalese men.

On our way back to the house, a guy on the road called out something along the lines of "It's hot out, eh? I can see it in your face!" My conclusion: I haven't quite acclimated to the heat as well as I'd like to think.

The only excuse Ellen and I could come up with for our sluggish pace was "It's the rice." (Which, you should know, we eat as the main ingredient in two of three meals every day.)

At least I have plenty of time to get used to it!

le cafard

Last night, we had quite an interesting meal. It consisted of spaghetti, hunks of bread, french fries, a chunk of "sheep", and some barbeque-like sauce. Surprisingly tasty. Also, surprising to see so many typical American ingredients combined in a totally un-American way. I think someone decided we all needed to carbo-load on American food.

Also last night were my first close encounters with "le cafard". In english, "the cockroach." I was sitting on the terrace, watching movie with one of my host brothers when I saw a cockroach moving toward me. It was so fast, I hardly had time to jump up before it ran between my legs. I was quite disgusted. None of my host siblings seemed to understand why I would react so strongly to a mere cockroach. I think cockroaches are to the Senegalese as daddy long legs are to Michiganders. They are a part of life- you kill them when you can, but they're always going to be there.

With my new found confidence, I retired to my room for the night (the power out, of course) and reached into my luggage to change into my pajamas. When I lifted a pair of jeans from the top, guess what nasty little bugger I saw scuttling ALL OVER the top of my luggage? Yup, cockroach. I lost it. Jumped on my bed. I couldn't even get it together enough to kill it. I just watched it until it disappeared somewhere in my closet/luggage. UUGH.

My heart rate returned to normal when I tucked the mosquito net around my bed and was safely inside. I don't think I'm going to get along with my new roommate...

Ecole de la rue

Today we visited a tiny informal school meant for impoverished children who don't live close enough or have the test scores to qualify for public school. The founder, director, and single professor are all the same man. He maintains the establishment by working his small farm on the weekends and selling the produce. It's not enough money to sustain the program, though. He says sometimes he has to skip breakfast to have enough money to buy chalk to use for the day (300 CFA or 75 cents). I have no idea how the children are able to concentrate in the classrooms- flies are buzzing around, and multiple lessons are going on at the same time (all ages are taught in the same classroom).

Walking through the surrounding town, the living conditions are unlike anything I've ever seen. Such small space for families to co-exist, they looked like shacks constructed from scraps.

As we walked through the neighborhood, everyone was busy either cooking or cleaning, and many people smiled and offered friendly greetings. It was obviously a tight-knit community. Its probably unavoidable when another family shares the same wall as you, and if you walk 5 feet, you'll run into at least three of your neighbors.

Check out the pictures, there's no way I can really describe it with words-

http://photobucket.com/ecoledelarue

Salty Milk

I feel my french improving every day. At least that's what I think right before I make a horribly embarrassing mistake like I did on Sunday. I was sitting on the beach with Lauren, Ellen, and Lauren's host brothers when I wanted to say "J'ai sel dans mon nez" for some reason, instead "J'ai sel dans mon lait" came out, which instead means "I have salt in my milk" Lauren's brother found this immensely funny and did not hesitate to tell everyone sitting around us my HILARIOUS mistake.

Don't worry, language is not the only way I've found to embarrass myself. Yesterday morning, I was waiting with the triplets for Thiaba to get some documents notarized. We were sitting on a curb, lazily chatting. Ellen noticed a senegalese woman across the drive making large motions toward us, so I waved hello and smiled. She didn't stop. I asked Ellen what she was saying (that's our set-up, I'm better at speaking french, but Lauren and Ellen can understand what others are saying much sooner than myself). She looked at me, then at the woman, then she said, "Grace! She can see your underwear, close your legs!" I felt soooo embarrassed, but was relieved to see the woman was at this point laughing like a hyena. Guess my skirt wasn't as long as I thought it was...

It's not a goat, it's a sheep!

Below is a link where I've uploaded all my pictures. It's quicker for me to share pictures that way- so check there for images of what I've been up to.

Our guide, Thiaba, has been a delight to talk to while we discover Dakar. Today during lunch, we had a bit of a bizarre argument. We asked whether people ate the goats that many people have. It's common to see five or six goats on the side of the road, tied next to a boutique. She said that the people do not, in fact, have goats. They have sheep. And the sheep is what we were eating for lunch. Skeptical, we insisted "No, you must mean GOAT. A sheep has WOOL." And she said, "No, its a SHEEP! I don't know, maybe in Europe the hair is bigger because it is more humid?" At this we all cracked up laughing. At the end of the discussion, we agreed to disagree.

When we were leaving lunch, we were surprised to find out that Thiaba is 29 years old. She looks like she is the same age as us! I asked her if she was going to marry her boyfriend soon. She replied, "Yes, I will invite you to my wedding!" We thought she meant she would send us an invitation sometime next year or something to that effect, but then she clarified "It will probably be sometime in November." Turns out, we are the first people to know she will be married, other than her fiance. Even her parents have no idea! She will wait until about two weeks before the wedding to tell her friends, too. All of this secrecy is totally normal and expected in Senegalese dating culture. She also promised to help us choose fabric and design formal Senegalese outfits to wear to her wedding. I can't wait!

Ile de Goree- We visited Ile de Goree on Saturday. Here, the buildings are as colorful as the history is rich and moving. It is a tiny island a twenty minute ferry ride from Dakar. There, we visited La Maison des Esclaves (The House of Slaves) a place that historically held slaves right before they were shipped out of Africa. The slaves were held on the ground floor, and the master lived luxuriously with his family on the second floor. It wasn't the biggest holding place for slaves, but it is one of the most well-known. I think it represents the general conditions in which slaves were traded. Between 15-20 slaves would be held in a small room about 8 by 12 feet large. If you look at my picture album, there is a picture of the even smaller room they would pile disobedient slaves in. There is a door called "The Door of No Return" through which each slave would pass when leaving the continent.

On Saturday night was the first time we went out to truly party with the Senegalese. My host brother, Cisco, took us out. We didn't leave for the club until some time after midnight- but when we arrived the place was still totally empty. Cisco tried getting us to move our hips with him, but we weren't too keen on starting the party just yet. When it was about 1:30-2:00am, the party had truly begun. Everyone knew how to swing his/her hips, especially the men! They move like snakes and can pop, lock, and drop it better than any American girl I know (Figure of speech, they didn't do too much "dropping"). Cisco insisted on trying to teach us hopeless Americans how to do the same by "slow dancing", but a better way to describe it would have been to say "grinding", or even "dry humping". Oh yes, what a complicated and sophisticated dance to learn! (Note the sarcasm please) Also, everyone was wearing Western clothes. In fact, the three of us were probably the most modestly dressed women there, in our two inches shorter than knee-length shirts/dresses. When it was about 4am, we headed home: quite early for the Senegalese!

Gotta go meet Lauren's host brother to watch a soccer game.

Cheers!

Paradox of Modern Senegal

Lots of Senegalese families like mine can afford to have internet and cell phones and laptops, but for some strange reason they draw the line of unnecessary luxury at toilet paper.

Senegalese families often have very clean homes because they have a maid or daughters to do the chores, but for some reason trash is all over every street, and sometimes in piles in the middle.

A Few First Glances

Lauren with her colorful array of scandalous bathing suit choices at the market in downtown Dakar.



It's common to see goats hanging out on the side of the road that belong to a vendor.



This is the entrance of the Baobab Center (where I'm taking classes). Next to me is Samba, who works for the center and has promised to teach us how to dance senegalese-style!



The view from the apartment where we spent our first night in Dakar. Ellen is checking out the bakery across the street- all those carts are filled with bread waiting to be delivered.



Lauren is tastefully displaying one of the fish we ate on the first night. The fish was served to us whole (skin and everything). Didn't bother me nearly as much as perhaps it should've...



One of the vendor's booths downtown Dakar



The triplets.



The street I live on.

Welcome to the Family

I feel disgusting right now. Sweat, wet animal, mosquito repellent, and the lingering smell of pungent Senegalese food (prepared as a thick stew) permeate my body. It is incredibly hot in my room without any windows, and since the power went out, not even the fan works to provide some relief.

Okay, enough whining. I've been very busy the last couple of days. Tuesday night, I met my host family for the first time. There is the mom (Awe), two daughters (Mona and Sira), and a plethora of sons, nephews, etc. (young men between the ages of 20 and 25) who sleep in the rooms on the top floor. Everybody is very welcoming, and seems willing enough to dumb down his/her french for periods of time to accommodate my minimal understanding. It's much easier to speak with the guys, though. Apparently this is something that is common for American girls to experience within a host family.

The guys spend all of their time at home on the top floor, either on the roof terrace or in one of the rooms. Me, I've been spending most of my time on the terrace as well, especially when the air cools off at night. Usually one of the guys is praying in the corner of the room on a mat while everyone else is either napping, playing on his/her personal computer, or chatting. During the day everyone has class or work. The girls, Sira and Mona, stay home during the day and do chores (including tidying up my room).

Today was the first day Ellen, Lauren, and I ventured downtown. Not going to lie- I was very intimidated at the prospect. Other students who had been there warned that the vendors are obnoxious, manipulative, and give unfair prices to Toubabs (white people). Since I'm still getting used to the Senegalese french accent (good excuse for my difficulties communicating, eh?) I was especially concerned.

Turns out, it wasn't so bad. Most of the vendors were friendly and did not make me feel uncomfortable. Don't be confused, they were persistent, but somehow in a polite way. For example, he would stand quietly behind one of our elbows for about five minutes waiting for use to stop talking before he would interject. When another guy tried pushing perfume on me, I held up my bag with my wraparound skirt I purchased and said in flawless french/wolof, "Sorry, I already used my money up!" He laughed and said, "ok, ok. thats good!" and left. I would've thought that friendly interactions like this would invite more aggressive selling, but it had the opposite effect.

I did feel bad for asking one guy to cut his apparently already reasonable price in half, though. I just assumed he would be ripping me off... Whoops! In the end, he did lower the price because it was Lauren's birthday, and because we look like triplets (refer to the attached pictures, and note the hilarity of that). Also note that Lauren was looking for a bathing suit when our delightful guide Thiaba showed us to a vendor of lingerie. Also included is a picture of Lauren with her scandalous bathing suit choices.

The one thing I am concerned about is the public transportation that has no real pattern or schedule. You have to ask the toll collector on each bus when it passes where it's headed (difficult when he's located on the back of the van- yes you heard me right- he stands on the rear bumper, holding on with one arm). Somehow we'll figure it out, just don't ask how :)

I'm out. Love to you all.

Salaa Malekum!

Packing to leave was an extensive process, including treating my clothing with a mosquito repellent called Permethrin and containing the next six months of my life to two suitcases.
When we flew into Senegal, it was 7am local time. I did not feel well rested- my back ached between my shoulders, and I never slept for longer than 30 minutes at a time. Upon the plane’s descent, the tiny palm trees, white boxy buildings, and sand looked like they were little plastic toys. Finally, the strange calm I felt when I left home for the airport subsided and gave way to excitement. I was finally here in Africa---
Ellen, Lauren, and I are staying at a small apartment in Dakar for the first night (tonight). Today we enjoyed our first Senegalese meals! Breakfast was waiting for us when we returned from the airport, and consisted of bread and some thick stew prepared by a nice man named Gom (we’re guessing he’s hired help in the complex, but nobody took the time to explain who he was, and he couldn’t speak French). Then we hit the hay hard, and were woken up by a woman we didn’t know ringing our doorbell. When we opened the door, she walked in without explanation and said it was time to eat. Still groggy and confused, again we assumed she was hired help and had a lunch of rice and grilled fish. It was a bit of a challenge figuring out to dig into the whole fish we were presented with, but it ended up being quite tasty!
After that, we headed to the Baobab Center (where we will be taking classes) and were taken on a little tour of the surrounding area. Things I noticed: the rigor mortus cat we passed laying in the storm drain, no trash cans, and therefore tons of trash in the roads. The highly perceptive among you might notice these are things located on the ground. Ah! Good point! Walking in Dakar is unlike walking anywhere at home- sidewalks aren’t large enough to accommodate street vendors, pedestrians, and people hanging out on blankets outside their home. We were constantly shifting from walking on the road, to the uneven sidewalk, and teetering on the curb when there was traffic coming both ways. It made it hard to look up and around at where I was. For those of you whom I told I wanted a study abroad experience unlike anything I’ve ever done before, that’s certainly what I’ve got.
There is so much more I want to talk about (child beggars, language barriers, mystery meat, etc.) but I can’t possibly cover it all in one entry, and this one feels plenty long to me.
Love from Dakar!

Considering maybe possibly thinking about packing... tomorrow?

Okay folks, it is officially crunch time. A little more than two weeks before I leave!

My delightful road trip with Chloe to go visit Sarah (and the disappointingly wimpy Irene) came to an end, and real life started up again. I came home to find that my health insurance would not, in fact, cover the malaria medication for which I received a prescription (an increased cost of, say, a mere $500). You'll be glad to hear that after only a few stressful and confusing phone calls later, the matter is mostly sorted out. I also have a second line of defense: treating my clothes with permethrin, an insecticide.



Now, I am looking to all of the other details of preparing to live on another continent for six months. Details such as having finding space to pack a six month supply of pads/tampons (apparently very expensive in Senegal) and condoms (my dad didn't laugh when I told him this meant I needed to take 600 condoms). All of these preparations for Senegal are adding up to a considerable price tag. Tonight, my mom told me I would probably need to purchase my OWN luggage. Can you say byebyepaycheck, and hello grown-up swag? :)



While not astronomical, these unforeseen costs have made me anxious. I don't want to add any more to my family's financial burden. And, thinking back to this time last year when I was wrapping up a life-changing month of LandSea, I left feeling completely satisfied and content with the the pack on my back and the gear it carried. Now, I am sad to realize I have so much energy tied to these material possessions. Shopping lists, budgets, camera charger hunt, blahblahblah, soul-sucking capitalism, you know what I'm talking about.

Come on, man. Can't we just live on the food we find, the clothes we're wearing, and the people we love? Just kidding. But really...

Frustration is...

spending the majority of daylight hours inside a small room with fluorescent lighting and one other person to keep me company.

working these monotonous days in the hope that I am making some small contribution to improving health outcomes for children on Medicaid, but suspecting that this group of people needs a frontal lobotomy to prevent their egos from sabotaging each attempt to collaborate.

sitting in a single meeting with twenty people at the table, and listening to twenty different conversations happening at the same time.

finding coffee drips all over my bright yellow shirt. I SWEAR I MUST HAVE A HOLE IN MY LOWER LIP.

feeling antsy, but having nowhere to go.

today.

"without struggle, there is no progress."

As I prepare to leave the country for six months, this quote serves as a reminder to myself that, yes, it will be difficult to say goodbye to my loved ones. Yes, it's always painful to miss Christmas at home. Yes, communication will be a daily struggle. I hope that facing some of these challenges will result in personal growth and an altered world perspective, just as the struggle to hike to the top of each peak in Killarney Park reaped the joys of self-satisfaction and a breathtaking view (pictured above).

The Hypochondriac

I have had the delight of getting to know the Hypochondriac this summer; we lived together as suite mates for about five short weeks.  This girl is the epitome of a do-gooder.  After a day of weeding, she would rant to the Spaz and I, "Who decides which plants are better than others?  Who are we to play God?!  I felt so bad for the plants as I was weeding them..." On another occasion, she reached an epiphany that most hygiene products contain sulfates, and had the other two suite mates and herself frantically reading labels on the bottles in our shower.  By the end of the whole ordeal, she had convinced all of us that if we didn't already have cancer, we would soon.

Her seemingly crippling sensitivity to others' needs and soft Guatemalan accent create a first impression of a gentle, somewhat sheltered, and shy girl.  She is quiet sometimes, but it is her sharp wit, unfailing kindness and generosity, street smarts, enduring idealism, and infectious laughter that her friends know her by.

I cannot remember the context, but she is the one who inspired the title of this blog.  She loved the saying "pee a little", and was the one who explained its meaning to me.

As far as I understand, "pee a little" can have a few different meanings.  It can be a reminder to loosen up, just relax, accept the unavoidable imperfection of ourselves and the world we live in, or, my personal favorite, to erupt in laughter so passionately that one has no choice but to, well, pee a little.  Peeing in and of itself is not a desirable outcome.  It's the rare circumstance when something strikes you as so damn hilarious that, for one fleeting moment, you completely forget to breathe compose yourself.  The feeling of warm moisture brings you crashing back to reality, with an undeniable wet spot on your underwear as a kind of souvenir that "yes, you blithering idiot, you laughed so hard you actually forgot to hold your piss in".

As I embark on my travels in Senegal, I think if I remember to pee a little, I will "learn things I never knew I never knew" to quote the famous Disney Princess Pocahontas. Thank you, Hypochondriac, for helping me set the tone for the next seven months of my life, making reminding me to pee a little, and for all of the great memories of this past summer.