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.