Half-way Hysteria

So. Tomorrow is my half-way point. I've been in Senegal for 6 months. And since I have another 6 to go, I think I will indulge in some panicking. Maybe bordering on hysterics.

It’s hard to put a finger on how I’ve changed in my 6ish months here. It’s been gradual, slow. I’ve hardly noticed it, in some ways. But some experiences have led me to see just how much I’ve transformed as a person. Immersing myself so readily in a different culture, letting myself flow with unfamiliar norms and ways of life has in turn changed what I think is normal. In terms of life, one year from home and all things familiar is not so much time. I thought, one year away couldn’t change a person that much. But for me, it has. I used to worry about petty things. I worried about my hobbies. When was the next Argentine Tango festival? If I practiced, I would get that step better, and my dance would improve. What was my latest 2K time in crew? How was our boat improving for the next race? A lot of my interest and time revolved around school and my social life; the typical college student self-absorbed in finding answers to homework, in finding a social niche. But I found both those things easily. I was chafing. I wanted real problems to worry about. I wanted my life to start, and this time for real, not just moving out of my parents’ house. I wanted problems and dilemmas that nobody else could relate to. I wanted to leave home for a year because I wanted to test who I thought I was as a person.

Before leaving, I took a weekly Global Citizenship seminar. I wish everyone who went to college was required to take this class, because it helped me answer so many questions I didn’t know I had been considering. But once a week they were laid in the open for me to discuss and consider. It made me consider the relation of myself, my role in life, with the rest of society. I mapped out who I thought I was, the activities, interests, and foundations that defined my personality and all my opinions. I left for Senegal knowing exactly who I was as a person. What I was burning to know was if I was right, because my assumptions would never be tested at home like they have been here.

And I was right in many ways. Everything I thought as normal has been challenged. Base assumptions to casual observations, all have been brought to my attention. And studying abroad in Europe, or any other developed nation, wouldn’t have done this for me. It would have lacked the total cultural reversal that I was looking for. I come from green places, relatively affluent lifestyles, liberal political views, feminist agendas, monochromatic culture, and extreme consumption. I come from clean streets, well-nourished children, active communities, and good school systems. I come from alcohol-soaked parties, from all-night studying, regional and national crew competitions, international dancing festivals. I come from a place which celebrates the progression of women, as long as they adhere to an idea of beauty which degenerates their ideas and focuses on their bodies. Where I come from there are never any power outages, and the government is so stable most of the population doesn’t pay attention to it like they should. (Until recently) I come from a place which is as self-centered as most of its inhabitants, busily working within their own lives for their own benefit.

What I came to: my street in Sacre Coeur

What I came to: Camel rides...

What I came to challenged everything about home. I came to pollution in the streets, in the water, in the air. I came to a place where 10% of the population holds nearly 80% of the wealth. I came to a place where water, electricity, and internet are no longer assumed to be existent/ of good quality. I came to a place that sends their brightest and smartest students abroad for better education, leaving their families hoping that they return home to improve the country. I came to a culture that values family as much as its religion, where it is disgraceful to put the elderly into nursing homes, as it is kin to abandonment. I came to a place where vibrant music and dance unites a population despite geographic distances. I came to a place that has at least one person in all the extended family working abroad to help support a vast family. I came to a place with delicious (and sometimes scary, it is true) food, even if I can’t pronounce it right. This is a place of gender roles so complicated, that to say one is “subordinate” compared to the other merely speaks to vast levels of ignorance. I came to a place that is just as racist as the U.S., though perhaps with different assumptions. I came to a place where every person speaks at least 2-3 different languages every day, sometimes more. I came to place that is finding its place between modernity and tradition, and thus creating a rich hybrid between the two. I’m now in a place that will forever leave an impact on what I feel is truly important to me, and it has shown me how I can reject things about home that no longer apply to me.

I was skyping a close friend from back home a few weeks ago, and he said something that startled me. We hadn’t spoken for a couple months, and he said I was different now, but not in an obvious way. He said I seemed older, more competent. He made me think about all my experiences that incited the change. What are other American 20 year olds doing right now with their lives? What have they done? University students, trade school students, young additions to the workforce, or those still floating through their life with no idea for the future? I realized that more than anything else, I am the latter. I am the floater. Because in my 6 months here, I’ve had so many questions that needed answering and no one but me could have answered them. For once, I couldn’t run to my parents’ (mostly) unfailing wisdom for answers. I needed experience. I needed a reason.

My Norm: Work...and Relaxation...

My cousin=adorable cuteness seen almost every week

And what I found was, sometimes, more than I could handle. Now I have those problems that make my petty life seem like a single grain in the 10-gallon sack of rice. Now, I’m doing more than read about the abstract reports of malnutrition in children and the rights of women. I’m in the middle of those reports wherever I go. I worked at a children’s hospital, saw HIV infected children come in for check-ups, and watched surgery hallways get crowded past capacity. I work in a school where desks are in disrepair and young girls have difficulty talking about their future careers because they never considered having one. I’ve found the problems that I was so eager to fix back home. And if I have days that I want to go into my room and cry for all the things I can’t change, then that’s all part of it. Because so many of the problems that I’ve found are not mine to fix, necessarily. For the most part, it’s not my place to fix them. I’ve learned to fully invest myself in the present, because thinking about the past or the future only gets me homesick. I pour all I have into my everyday life, because if I live inside my head too much and constantly think about home then it will be like I never left. 

And I’m happy to discover that I can experience all these things and still feel like I’ve retained who I am. When I left home, it turns out, I did have a pretty good idea as to who I was. I’ve found friends I’ll keep for the rest of my life. I have that social niche that I was so disdainful of before, but which I know is essential to my sanity now. I have a host family here that I will never lose contact with, who teach me so much is everyday interactions. I’ve travelled between two different African countries without knowing where I would sleep the next night; but I did have the faith that something would work out eventually.

My Norm: Seeing trash and pollution

So when my friend told me I changed, I realized that my assumption of norms had changed, not me as a person. It is life now. I’m used to power cuts, to random blasts of music from alleys, to men kneeling for prayer in the streets, to walking home at 5:30 AM, just as the call to prayer lifts people from their beds. I’m used to a different rhythm. The phrase “time is money” is used to scorn people too rude to stop and chat with someone they see in the street. I used to the rhythm of speech unfamiliar to mine, just as I’m used to a music rhythm different from mine. My norm is to eat mutton almost every day; just as it is my norm to see people who obviously don’t get enough to eat everyday.  

My norm: sketchy power sources in our tent

Now, my fellow students gather in the student lounge, only 1 week left in the semester. I’m torn by their conversations. When they speak of all the things they are going to do when they get home, I get up and leave the room. Because so much of me misses my family and friends like my limb was cut off. I know this halfway point means a lot for my boyfriend and I, especially. I hear things like lattes, Mexican food, down comforters, drinkable tap water, or snow with the same bemused sentiments that the 21^st Century has for intergalactic travel, world peace, or (Oprah would love me for this one) free cars for everyone in the room. On the other hand, I hear people making plans for last minute sorties around the city/surrounding area, panicking because they’ll “never have enough time.” This is the part where you find me sitting back, cracking open a metaphorical newspaper, and smugly ignoring all their all their talk of regional travel. Because even though I miss home, I have shit to do, quite frankly. 
 

·         I need to obtain fluency in 2 foreign languages.

·         I need to turn CIPFEM into a nationally recognized NGO.

·         I need to see the outcome of the elections, and watch as the country transforms before my eyes.

·         I need to travel to Timbuktu and evade kidnapping by extremists.

·         I need to participate in Muslim holidays.

·         I need to haze a whole new batch of students at the end of January!

You see? I have plans…and I’m only half-way…

Tamxarit

So. This holiday snuck up on me. Tamxarit is the Muslim new year. 

In Senegal it is starts with a large dinner of couscous, or cere in Wolof. Before eating, Awa Balla and I went to different houses to deliver a meal of couscous to various families. I’m pretty sure the selection was made based on friendship or neighbors. Various family members dropped over to eat with us. At about 10:30 PM I heard drums by our door. I discovered a crowd of about 40-50 people outside our house. About 15 of them were men…but they were wearing womens clothing, right down wigs and heavy make-up. They were pounding on drums and dancing, singing a song that was basically along the lines of the American “trick or treat.” I got a peek around the side of the door, until one tried to pull me into the crowd. Let me tell you, there is something oddly terrifying about a cross-dressed Senegalese man with fake hair in his face. My reaction: run like hell. I only returned when I could hide behind my mom and Bintu. My mom gave them money, and I felt then that the pressure was taken off me, so I moved into our entryway again. In celebration (for my mom had been very generous in giving them CFA5,000, which roughly equals $10) the dancer started a dance mainly comprised of hip thrusts, booty shaking, and shoulder shimmying. When he started all this and was started to look like he was heading toward us again, my mom (full head scarf and all) slapped him on the butt with her prayer beads. He theatrically fell out the door, and the drum circle and their followers moved on to the next house. Everyone was laughing and yelling to people they knew in the crowd. 

I stole this from the internet-but you get the idea

So, can I just say, that when I came to Senegal, I really didn’t think that I was going to need saving from a crowd of cross-dressed, drum wielding men; or that my salvation would come from my conservative, headstrong mother slapping a young man with her prayer beads…I guess the culture shock never ends.

15 minutes later, Nadia and her host-sister Aida came over. I was glad to find that Nadia shared my fear of the strangely dressed men. However, Aida insisted that we join the people following the group. Well, there is strength in numbers. So Aida, Nadia, Awa Balla and I ran out of the house and onto the street to find the musicians. We joined some other girls, and somehow we all ended up linking arms/taking hands and became a part of the crowd. We followed the sounds of drums to another house.

This was a different group of dancers and musicians though. This one had a man wearing a suit and a huge fake pot-belly with a painted surgical mask. The kind of broad, straw hat that you would expect Asian farmers to wear topped it off. His friends had large dark sunglasses despite the night, and some were carrying large walking sticks. They would select a house, see if the door was open, and if it was, they would all throw it open and run inside. The crowd would follow as long as they could, packing into the hallways of houses. The singing/dancing/money routine would continue and when we saw the musicians were ready to leave, we all pushed, screamed and sprinted our way out of the house. If you weren’t careful, they would grab you and force you to dance.

They caught me off guard when I was joking around with my friends, and one man grabbed me from behind and wouldn’t let me go. The pot-bellied guy ran over, shaking his walking stick in my face and screaming. Not knowing that this was an invitation to dance, my brain registered only a few factors: I was trapped, I was surrounded by screaming creepily dressed men, there were deafening drums all around me. I freaked out. I covered my eyes and sort of accepted fate. Then, Nadia reached through the group of men, and with the help of our other friends, yanked me free. Lots of taunting followed, and I was trying to regain my sanity. We put a larger distance between ourselves and the drummers, and they figured out that we were scared, not shy. So they all ran over, took our hands and told us that we were “one people,” and in English, nonetheless. After that, we were pals, and our group continued harassing, singing, and dancing for different families.

We ended up at the house of Mbaye Dieye FAYE. He’s a musician in the band that plays with Youssou N’DOUR. If you don’t know who that is, then I’m ashamed. He’s one of the most famous musicians from Africa, and is a beacon of Senegalese cultural pride. FAYE is one of N’DOUR’s best friends and cornerstone of the music group. And I was in his house. Our drum/dancing buddies went nuts in his living room (in front of all his important guests). Nadia and I were able to squeeze through the crowd to see FAYE, and we were pretty stoked. But our friends had other ideas.

Being white, it suffices to say that I stand out a little in the sea of Senegalese people. I was yanked from the crowd (you can see that this happened a lot) and in front of a national musical icon, was told to dance. Well. Seize the day, right? So Nadia and I broke it down in front of Mbaye Dieye FAYE, making the whole crowd laugh hysterically. We tried no to think about being in the house of a famous person, and so just focused on the drums, trying to get a hang of the polyrhythmic beat and not make a bigger fool out of myself by dancing horribly. When we were finally allowed to stop, we actually shook his hand, and asked how the Tamxarit was going for him. He held out his arms and yelled, “beautiful!” Nadia and I ran outside again, and like 16-year-old girls, we held hands and yelled, “we just danced for Mbaye Dieye FAYE!!” Our friends treated us to some high-fives and Aida shook her finger at me saying, “spicy, spicy!”

After that, we saw that it was close to midnight, and we figured nothing more exciting could happen anyway so we all trouped back through the neighborhood to our houses. We had enough time to have some tea with Grandma FALL, then it was time for bed.

At home, we bang pots and stay up until midnight for the New Year. Here, we cross-dress, dance, and invade our neighbors’ houses.

Happy New Year everyone.

CIPFEM

For once, I guess I will talk about my internship. I don’t know how this happens, but I always seem so late on talking about my work here (my real life) rather than all the fun I have. Maybe because I have more fun writing about fun things… Oh well. As I’m sure some of you are thinking, FINALLY-- a post about something legitimate…

However, before getting to my internship, I need to give you a background on what I am working with. So. You get the great pleasure of reading one of my Gender and Development papers! (This got me an A, by the way. So-DAD you are not allowed to attack it with a red pen, though I know it will be hard for you. And this is meant to be a 5-page overview of education to incorporate into a 10-15 page final. I say this because I know you (DAD) are about to tear it apart for many reasons. Haha)

                                                                                                Rachel Boehm

                                                                        CIEE Fall Term 2011

                                                                                                Gender St. & Devel.

Gender Parity and Education in Sub-Saharan Africa

Gender parity in education is one of the most crucial issues facing the 21^st Century. It speaks across all divisions of society, from economic standing, to politics, to health. Equitable processes of education are inconsistent worldwide, especially in developing nations. Poverty and discrimination are key factors in an unequal access to education. The Millennium Development Goals sought to address these inequities, but it is up to civil society groups coupled with legislation from nations with unequal gender parity in education to enact the kind of policies and programs necessary for change. 

Statistics of gender inequalities in education show the vast amount of change which is necessary in society. Girls and women represent two thirds of those who have no access to education. Access is just the beginning. 65 million girls never enter a classroom, and roughly 100 million fail to complete primary school. Despite greatly increased access to the highest levels of education, nearly 75 million girls and women are not being educated. (Aikman and Unterhalter, 1)

The second and third Millennium Development Goals (MDGs) sought to address gender parity in education. The goal of the second MDG is to “achieve universal primary education.” (www.beta.undp.org) The United Nations hoped to see all boys and girls fulfilling primary school by 2015. The third MDG states its goal is to “promote gender equality and empower women.” By 2005, it was expected to expel gender disparities in primary education. The more ambitious goal was to have all forms of gender disparities eliminated from all levels of education by 2015. These MDGs are not the only international sentiments on gender parity and education. Other NGOs and civil society groups work tirelessly to reverse statistics showing negative trends in female school attendance and literacy rates.  (beta.undp.org)

The Beijing Platform for Action for gender equality and Dakar Education For All (EFA) Framework for Action are both examples of other international declarations on behalf of women’s education. Unlike the MDGs, these summits also highlighted the importance of education beyond primary school. (Subrahmanian, 24) While the MDGs stress the global importance of education, these summits are pushing for higher expectations. The wish for gender equity is not enough, for these actors, reaching beyond primary school was also possible.

 EFAs goals are more far-reaching than the MDGs. They focus on expansion and improving education and primary school education, stressing the importance of disadvantaged children. Like the third MDG, they also have a 2015 goal, which seeks to bring access, completely free, and compulsory primary school education of good quality to girls and ethnic minorities. The EFA calls for the comprehensive appreciation for learning needs among both the youth and adults to access both school and life skills programs. They hope for 50% improvement levels of adult literacy by 2015, and ensure equal access to education for girls. Quality is also their goal, as well as recognizing excellence and learning outcomes. (Subrahmanian, 23)

However, gender quality will need much more than collaborative summits. In order to initiate policies, which will impact the social, economic, cultural and political contexts of gender equality, it is crucial that terms of success be researched and initiated. Momentum for change succeeded in increasing the amount of support for women in education. However, obstacles will be overcome only if governments, civil society groups, and NGOs enact the change that is being forever discussed.

The obstacles to gender parity in education are numerous. Deeply entrenched structures of power and discriminatory laws hamper young girls’ enrollment and ability to stay in school. Laws, customs, culture, and institutional practices all hamper the advancement of women in education. However, the MDGs and development agencies should be focusing on more than just gender parity, or the quantity of girls versus boys in school. Issues of quality and equity should be on the table as well. Developing the freedoms of all individuals based on the quality of education they receive will have a greater impact than just achieving numbers. Equality means tearing down predisposed structures which bar young women from their education. (Aikman and Unterhalter, 2)

In countries where the gender gap is significant, there are many obstacles confronting young women. It is critical that harassment be eliminated, as well as gender insensitive materials. The school environment is critical to education, and young women deserve the same supportive learning environment as young men. Reduction and conscious attention to sexual violence will help facilitate that kind of environment. Extending to a health aspect, this is particularly important in regions with high rates of HIV/AIDS. Teachers and appropriate learning materials will pave the way for a safer schools and a gender sensitive future. Parents are a crucial aspect as well, for breaking taboos in society would be impossible without their participation and support. (Regional Overview Report, p. 2)

The ramifications of gender parity, and educating young women, have effects which impact all levels of daily life in Sub-Saharan Africa. The social capital developed by equal education is the foundation on which development takes place. A stable public education system is typically a catalyst for social and economic progression. The effects on population growth are unquestionable. Reduced fertility, low child mortality, and an increased per capita income are all results of educating women. On top of that, the returns of educating women are generally higher than they are for men. (USAID, p. 7)

Senegal’s education system, as of 2000, was one of the least supported in Sub-Saharan Africa. Compulsory education is from 7 years of age to 12 yeas of age, with a legal guarantee for free education. This is consistent with roughly half of Sub-Saharan African countries, even if their compulsory age group ranges from 7-12 years of age, to 6-16 years of age, or 7-13 yeas of age. According to a research of selected education indicators completed in 2000, the total expenditure of the Republic of Senegal on education is only 3.2%.  Even countries with less support from the government had higher literacy rates, such as Uganda, Rwanda, Nigeria and Mozambique. (Regional Overview Report, p. 3)

            Gender parity and education is a crucial step for social justice and development. The benefits of educating women stretch to encompass health, economics, social life, and political stability. Respect for women and rights to education have gained momentum in recent years thanks to efforts such as the Millennium Development Goals and other collaborative summits. As gender parity and equality increase, quality of life and standards of living will improve across socio-economic boundaries.

So, now that you have a background, my internship!

For the whole of my academic year at CIEE, I will be working with the organization CIPFEM: International Center for the Promotion of Female Leadership. CIEE students in a Gender and Development class created it in 2006 to take action in their community and contribute to the development of Senegal. CIEE student volunteers started a program which works directly with young girls between the ages of 9 and 14. This is the age group which is most likely to drop out of school, and thus, our target population. 

Mask Day

The organization started in the village of Yoff, which is actually just a suburb of Dakar. In 2010, they moved to the community of Ouakam, which is just a 15-minute bus ride from my campus/home.

Red Light/Green Light

The idea is that a group of CIEE students organize bi-weekly sessions at an elementary school in Ouakam, called Ecole Elemantaire El Hadji Mbaye Diope. Each session is about an hour and a half to two hours. We organize language lessons, arts and sports activities, leadership seminars, etc. Each of these activities has a committee, which in turn consists of volunteers (my fellow CIEE stutents). Our Fundraising and Communication/Outreach Committees don’t work directly with the students, but focus their efforts (theoretically) on developing the financial backing of the organization. Language Learning, Arts & Sports, and Leadership/Mentorship work directly with the girls on activities designed to allow them to explore creative and artistic outlets. They range from team-building exercises, relay races, French hang-man games, writing poetry, making masks, etc. Each session is supposed to instill a little more confidence, a little more self-assurance, which then combats school drop-out rates. We explore possible career choices, universities, and how to have a career and family balance. Though this last part might sound a little intense, it’s all done within fun activities, which helps the girls talk more about their dreams/hopes. 

Art Project: Key chains

One of our largest obstacles has been just that, however. Getting the girls to talk about their hopes and dreams is exceedingly difficult. While I grew up I couldn’t walk into a group of adults without all of them leaning over and asking, “So, what do you want to be when you grow up?” I started to make things up just to make things more exciting. These girls, however, are hardly ever asked this question, and 6/10 girls will merely give us silence when we try and get something out of them. But those other 4 girls who did want to speak, they want to be judges, teachers, lawyers, and government officials. These girls are fantastic influences on their friends, and encourage them to find something they want to do. 

Designing masks

SUCCESS!

Nadia's Human Knot Group

Human Knot activity: who can get untangled the fastest?

Relay Races

Winners!

Katie: super stoked about teaching!

Public Speaking: Introduction!

Human Knot!

Key chains

Communication is a small road-block as well. Though the older girls speak pretty good French, and goodness knows, we volunteers need to improve as well, there is still just enough of a knowledge gap that communication is a constant upward battle. I speak the most Wolof than any of my fellow volunteers, and though the girls can understand anything I say, I find I can only understand 30% of what they’re trying to tell me. Thus, practice, practice, practice. That’s what these sessions are for both groups.

As for my position specifically, I am the Project Coordinator of the whole thing. Though I have to check in with my internship advisor to get my ideas approved, and sometimes with making connections in the community, but other than that I am the one running the show. I am in constant e-mail communication with the Coordinator from last year, as she is invaluable as a source of information and contacts. In terms of the CIEE volunteers, I am the logistic organizer who is managing Committee communication and keeping everyone up to date on CIPFEM developments. I talk with the headmaster of the school to organize the enrollment of students. I attend every session to ensure that the committees run their activities smoothly, and help them run the sessions. Whenever the committees run out of ideas or need a little inspiration, I am usually involved with those ideas too. Quite simply. I make sure things don’t fall apart.

Recently, I found out that our legal documents are still in the hands of a man who worked with the organization in Yoff. Though he currently isn’t working with our organization, or involved in any of the changes and expansions we are doing, he has our papers. CIPFEM is a legal, legitimate, non-profit organization. However, with all the proof that we are an NGO resting in his hands, we cannot enact the next step and begin setting up our own bank accounts. With bank accounts, we could expand fundraising and thus the scope of our organization, and THUS keeping more girls in school. This can only be a good thing right? This man, however, is proving unwilling to give us our documents. It seems he wishes to maintain ties to our group even though he is no longer involved. I am now faced with two options: call in some African drug lord buddies I have to sneak into his place of residence and take the documents by force. Or, we will need to start from scratch and reapply for NGO status with the Senegalese government to get our own legal documents. As you might have guessed, I am in such deep denial that I wish the first option was viable. The amount of Senegalese bureaucracy that is in my near future is testing my patience before I’ve even started. I know. I am certain. I am sure; that a mountain of superfluous paperwork and unreturned phone calls are in my near future. Also within my near future are long lines to grumpy office secretaries, and a dizzying amount of bureaucratic French that will make my want to bury my head under a rock. 

HOWEVER! I am not to be dissuaded. This is what I came here for, right? I came here to make a difference! Learn a culture! Change lives! (That’s the mantra I mutter to myself whenever I get frustrated, anyway.)

Wish me luck. 

The Epitome of Teranga

Aloura and I were both in the same Wolof class at UO before we came to Senegal. Our teacher, Maguette, was a graduate student who finished up his studies and returned to  Senegal around October. While we were all in Eugene, we talked about visiting Maguette and meeting his whole family, but we didn’t know if it was a serious invitation or not. Upon his return, however, it seemed it had been. So Aloura and I made plans to pack up and head over to Pout, a large village about 14 kilometers from the city of Thiès.

 

Maguette and Abdou! (who is a little distracted)

We left Dakar at about noon on Saturday, since I had work on Friday afternoon and Saturday morning. Maguette’s directions were fairly straight forward, seeing as we were only informed of them one step at a time. Per Maguette’s advice, we hired a sept-place to take us to Thiès. It surprised me how normal travel felt. When I first arrived in Senegal, the bustling garage with screaming apprenti, all calling me to their bus with their destination, had left me exhausted and stressed. This time, Aloura and I already knew which part of the garage to go to for a car to Thiès, and simply ignored the cat-calls and whistles. We paid the fare, threw in our bags, and waited for it to fill up. It was all so casual and easy.

 

This isn't my picture, but you get the idea. (This is in Mali, if you're curious)

About half way to Thiès, we called Maguette for the next set of directions, and we were told to get out at Pout, then call him again. Going step by step greatly reduces stress of travel, I’ve found. It was impossible to obsess over details when you have no idea what was going to happen. Once in Pout, we got out, bought some fruit for a welcoming gift for his family, and called him once again.

Next step: We were given two choices. Choice 1: pay the men that drive around the small town on mopeds (like taxis) to take us to a specific neighborhood within Pout. This option was faster, but more dangerous. Choice 2: hire a horse or donkey-drawn cart, sereche, to bring us in. This option was slower, but undeniably safer. Without hesitation, Aloura and I headed straight to the corner where all the moped men were. For once, set prices made waxaale unnecessary. We jumped on the back of two mopeds (one took my huge watermelon and balanced it in front of him). We gave each other one terribly excited glance, though slightly edged with fear, before we ripped off down the street. Weaving between livestock, people, carts, and vehicles was no small task, but we arrived slightly breathless in front of the gates of an old Hôtel de Ville without any physical injury. Assuming this was our stop, we got off and called Maguette once again. This was the end of motor transportation, as we walked through the neighborhood to his house.

We set our things in his room, and immediately left to greet his family. There followed a dizzying number of introductions. Maguette referred to almost everyone as “brother” or “sister,” even if they were not so closely related. Even if they were cousins, they were introduced as brothers or sisters. Imagine the greeting process that I wrote about the previous blog post about Language in Senegal, then multiply it by 10 or possibly 20. Each person needed to be greeted in some way, and others needed longer greetings than others. However, I feel like we survived the greetings fairly well, seeing as we were the interesting new-comers surrounded by a new family.

Delicious Yassa bu jën

 

We returned to Maguette’s house and stayed there until the early evening. Our lunch experience should have warned us of the food theme of the weekend. We were fed one of the most delicious yassa bu jën (onion-lemon sauce with fish over rice) of my life, which was cooked by one of Maguette’s sisters. Quickly following that was a platter of sliced watermelon and peeled tangerines. An hour or two later, we were given a second lunch, an amazing ceebuyàpp (meat with piles of freshly chopped veggies and eggs over rice), cooked by Maguette’s other sister. Aloura and I started to wonder how much food our bodies could hold, and this didn’t even include dinner. While relaxing on Maguette’s upstairs patio, I finally learned to prepare ataaya.

Tasty first lunch..

 

Propane with open flame: check! Scalding tea pot: check!

Ataaya deserves a paragraph all to itself, as it explains a lot about Senegalese culture and mentality. It is a tea, and served in 3 rounds which each take 30 minutes to brew. It’s an opportunity for friends, guests, or even strangers to sit around and talk while the tea is prepared. Sometimes, if you are walking down the street and a friend greets you, you are obligated to sit and have some ataaya. Even if you don’t know someone well, random people in the street will still invite you to join them. Thus, ataaya is a social unifier. It speaks to the importance of social interaction in Senegalese culture. Passing greetings are unheard of; waves as you pass friends are offensively brief. In this culture, you take the time to talk about how you, your job, your family, or any other business, are going. You take the time to listen to others. Ataaya is a space in which to do that. The difference between Dakar and more rural communities is plain: in Dakar, you can get all 3 rounds in an hour and be on your way. 

But in Pout, I got the impression that we had tea the way it was supposed to be made. We made the three rounds, each taking 30 minutes to prepare, and it was meticulously prepared and tasted before it was served. Since Aloura had prepared it before, I got to try it. Armed with a small metal pot, a box of tea, a bag refined sugar, a tray with two small ataaya glasses, a propane tank with a burner, and a lighter, I was ready to begin. Exact measurements are for the weak, apparently, because all amounts were estimated by shaking tea into the pot until someone told me to stop. But I think it was about one part tea for three parts water. Starting the burner was the equivalent of a camping stove in the US- turn on the gas, turn on the lighter and hope you move your hand fast enough to not get burned. According to Maguette, getting burned is part of the process, and if you don’t get burned you’re not doing it right. Fabulous. The next 20 minutes or so, you just watch the water and make sure the tea doesn’t boil over. When it came time to add the sugar, we encountered a problem. One small glass wasn’t enough (basically a little larger than the average shot glass). This was Maguette’s queue to hang over the edge of his terrace to call a boy to get more sugar, which arrived about 5 minutes later. In the city, we have maids; in the country, there are children with spare time. After adding sugar, you let the tea sit for a little to let the sugar dissolve and mix. Taking up the tray with the two small glasses, some tea is then poured into one glass (without burning your hands on the metal pot). In a process called xiim, the tea is transferred from glass to glass, trying to accumulate thick foam in each cup (without burning your fingers from the hot glass). 

I don’t know if this is normal, but one can expect a reasonable amount of back-seat-tea-preparing. Perhaps it was because I was learning, but everyone present had an opinion of how to do it just right. After some trial and error, and after watching the resident tea masters, Aloura and I deduced that a successful xiim depended on three things: no hesitation, speed, and quick wrists. I still spilled some, but I got the foam nonetheless. The extra tea is then poured back into the pot, the outside of the glasses rinsed off, and again you wait a couple minutes. When the time is up, the preparer tastes the tea. Depending on your preference, add sugar or a little more tea. Being Senegalese, usually more sugar is preferred. Right before serving, fresh mint is added to the pot, letting it sit for a couple minutes. The tea is then served to guests first (except me, because I was making it and therefore would have the last glass), followed by the hosts. Since there are only two glasses, one takes turns until everyone is served. The second round is the same as the first, except more water is added to replace the brewed tea, along with fresh dried tea. The previous tealeaves from the first round remain in the pot. Another 30 minutes passes, then the xiim, then tasting, ingredient adjusting, pouring and serving. The tea itself is extremely strong, and there is enough sugar in each serving to make you wonder how close you are to a cavity, but it’s one of my favorite things about Senegal. Especially in this setting, as we sat in a group talking about music, hearing stories about people Maguette grew up with, and trying not to burn the hell out of my fingers. I guess that means I was doing it right. 

Diligently watching the tea

Fruit platter, tea, sugar, tray and cups

Mouth-watering ceebuyàpp: lunch #2

 

Now…Getting back the weekend…

After our two lunches, Aloura and I were definitely full, and completely happy to chat with Maguette and his friends on the upstairs patio. (And if this wasn't enough, we were presented with glasses of a mysterious fruit juice. It had the consistency of a smoothie, and had a flavor I couldn't place, though I thought I detected a little banana. It was heaven. And it will be explained later in this post.) However, as it started getting dark, we headed to the nearby city of Thiès to have dinner with Maguette’s other sister, Mame. Another semi-scary moto ride, and a 30-minute ndieye-ndieye got us to the city. We walked for about 20 minutes, though the old neighborhoods where Maguette went to high school to his sister’s house. We passed a very pleasant evening chatting in Mame's sitting room, and she gave us something delicious that I don’t know the name of for dinner. We have it a lot with my host family here in Dakar. A bed of lettuce (fresh vegetables being my weakness) with fried fish, potatoes, and the delicious onion/lemon sauce.

Rooftops of Maguette's neighborhood in Pout

Sunset view from Maguette's upstairs patio

Dafa neex! (it's tasty)

After dinner, we walked to downtown Thiès. Maguette was on a mission to show off the city, despite the time. It wasn't until close to midnight that we caught a taxi from Thiès to Pout.


The next morning, Maguette whipped out a bag of Starbucks ground coffee. Aloura and I were in paradise. Every morning I've either had either instant Nescafe coffee or something called café Touba. It's coffee beans that are basically burned beyond recognition, then "brewed" from there. At least, that is what I heard from a Gambian woman who's lived here for nearly 20 years. Even if that is wrong, it still tastes like burned coffee laced with pepper. So for the first time in 5 months, I had a decent cup of coffee with breakfast. Let me tell you, it's the little things in life that make it worth living.

See that? That's Starbucks coffee! See it?? See it??

 After breakfast, we were informed of our plans for the day. First: we were to nduggi with his friend Aminata. After that, we were going to his sister's house to learn how to cook ceebujën.


Nduggi is a wolof word that does not translate into French or English. It refers to the morning, when the women go to the market to buy fresh vegetables, fish, spices, and all they need to prepare the food for the day. It's only the women, and Maguette stayed at home, as he would have been laughed at if he'd gone with us.


So Aminata came and got us in the morning.

Little side note here: And I’m sorry, Maguette, I tried, but keeping track of who were your best friends, women married to your best friends, other friends, your cousins, sisters, and aunts was absolutely impossible to remember. Names flew around my head, whether it was common Senegalese names that I’ve heard a lot (and thus easier to remember) or other names that I had not heard before (and thus were very difficult to remember). It was worse still when you would greet someone in the morning, only to have them change clothes completely by the afternoon (including hair), making you wonder if you were going crazy. 

This is what happened with Aminata. I had met her briefly the night before, in the dark. She had dropped by the house just before breakfast, and now she was here again. Only she had completely changed her clothes! I was halfway through asking how her morning was when I shut my mouth, since I recognized her. It confused me, because she had looked beautiful before, but was now wearing a floor-length dress that I would have worn to an expensive dinner. It was very confusing. 

Anyway, we walked to the market, all ready to buy everything for ceebujën. 

One large, covered area was just fish

De-scaling our fish

Vegetable vendor-squash, carrots, bissap, cabbage etc

Aminata in the background in her dress

spices spices spices

 It was right in front of this spice stand that Aloura and I had a little surprise. She got a tap on the shoulder and the girl who works in her family's house was right behind her. Daba, it seemed, was home for the Tabaski vacation still and doing a little nduggi herself. We exchanged hugs and greetings in the middle of the market, and I can only imagine how odd that must have looked to the locals.

Market bargaining

Dried fish, spices, Adja bouillon cubes and the sauced used to make supekanja.

Road to the right leads to the market, this is the train between Dakar and Bamako

 We saw this train heading towards Dakar and Aminata told us it was coming from Bamako. We had heard that it was shut down, and only the cargo line was working, but here it was. Maybe I'll take it to Bamako when I try and get to Timbuktu in the spring...

Aminata gutting fish (after she changed again)

Tasty tasty!

Bags of rice, beans, and some grains in the market

Our bucket for nduggi all full of fish and veggies

And it held all these veggies and spices!

Crushed and warmed tamarin, sadly, Aloura and I didn't know we were supposed to spit out the leaves. We chewed it all and got a bitter taste that felt like out teeth were coated in fuzzies.

Biggest rooster I've ever seen

Very aggressive Turkey, he chased Aloura over half the compound. 

Reppin' the UO!!!

 After helping Aminata prepare the vegetables, we headed over to Maguette's sister's house to actually learn how to cook.

Huge fallen Baobab tree on the walk over to Maguette's sister's house

Fruit tree outside their house

Heaven in bowl

Before starting, we were told to come and sit. Maguette's sister, Daoda, brought giant bowels of laax. Normally my family and I only eat this on Sundays nights for dinner. It is a millet porridge covered in a home-made yogurt. We were used to laax, but like every other dish we were offered, it was mysteriously 10x more delicious than we were used to. There is something about this family/town that does wonderful things to food. The texture of this laax was much better, more along the lines of cream of wheat from the US, and had some kind of spice, like nutmeg. When we had first seen the dishes, Aloura and I were daunted by the sheer size (we had just had breakfast!), but knew that to not eat would have been offensive. However, once we tasted it, we didn't really have a choice. We looked at each other; this wasn't laax, it was heaven in a bowl. It was so good that we nearly finished all of it. Then it hit us: crap. We need to be ready to eat lunch in about 2 hours. Laughing helplessly, we got up and did some stretches, willing our stomachs to magically expand.

Stretching!

 When we convinced our hosts that we were completely and utterly full, we began cooking. I'll post the recipe process when I get it back from Aloura, because it's pretty long. So I'll just explain the pictures for now.

Stuffing the fish with sauce

Pounding onions and spices for a different sauce

Daoda steaming bissap leaves for another sauce

Rinsing and cleaning the rice

Steaming the rice a little while the veggies cook

Stewing fish and veggies, along with lots of bouillon cubes

Fishing out the goodies (no pun intended)

My turn!

Maguette dropping in to taste the heavenly laax

After so much laax, food comas set in hard core

Bed of rice

Assembling the bowl

Almost ready: Bissap sauce, crunchy rice, and food bowl

Lunch time!!

Delicious lunch! Success!

 Full for the third time today, Aloura and I were allowed to sit for about 10 minutes before we were told to go sit in another room. Once again, we had the mysteriously delicious fruit smoothie-like juice, only this time there were chunks of banana, fresh apple, and chunks of ice. Once again, Aloura and I were floored by the delicious flavor and ate more when we thought we couldn't. In the middle of our conversation about the sheer quantity of food consumed in just two days, we saw Daoda walk past the door carrying a large fruit. Surely. Surely...that couldn't be for us. We were only human, we couldn't do this all day. It turned out she was only looking for a knife and platter, because we were soon presented with more food. This was the fruit that was used to make those smoothies, and really cannot be described very well. It's texture is vaguely similar to pineapple, but also kind of like a pear. It's taste was mellow as well, like how a banana is mellow compared to an apple, but it didn't have the same kind of banana sweetness.

Endless food... endless

After lunch, we estimated that we had enough time for Aminata to braid our hair. Though it actually took about an hour and a half, and we had to leave after Aloura's was done, this was one of my favorite couple of hours ever. It was just Aminata, Aloura, Bintu, and myself, with some other ladies dropping in from time to time to chat. It was my first real bonding session with young Senegalese women who were not in my host family (or who worked for our last program). It was even better that they didn't speak a word of English, so for once, conversations were strictly in Wolof and French. It was also the first time someone told me that I spoke Wolof better than the last students Maguette brought home to meet his family. It was such a great end to the day, chatting with the women and gossiping as if we had been in their friendship circle for months, rather than hours.

Aloura gettin' her hair did

We left Pout as the sun was setting. We enjoyed our last break-neck moto ride back to the highway, and waited for any form of transportation that was going back to Dakar. Amid the blaring lights of a gas station, with cars, vans, buses, and motorcycles rushing past, we exchanged good-byes and somehow accepted an invitation to travel to Touba for the next Murid holiday. In a whirlwind moment, our farewells were said, invitation accepted, bus place purchased, and I was waving from the window as we pulled away. I left my hand pressed on the window until I couldn't see our friend anymore.

It was an end to a fabulous weekend, with some of the best people I've met. Senegal is known for their hospitality, called teranga, in Wolof. After just a couple days we were treated like family and included in everything. Instead of condemning our inability to speak Wolof, they encouraged our efforts and applauded our successes. I was reminded of a sense of family I rarely feel outside my own family. I cannot wait to go back.

Bintu and I, love her!

“A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.” -- Tim Cahill