Language in Senegal

 Once again, I’ll be writing about another vacation. This time, however, it is the week long Fall Break in the CIEE program. It hit the two-month mark for the other students, who were itching for an adventure and a change of scenery. Sound familiar? While most of the other students took buses, ndiaye-ndiayes, boats, and sept-places to the far corners of Senegal and Gambia, I decided to stay in Dakar. Mostly, it was a matter of money. I’d already spend two weeks traveling around the Casamance and the Gambia, and I will be traveling for my month off between the Fall and Spring terms anyway. Saving money sounded like a good plan.

I stayed with my host family, and went on small excursions with Aloura or Nadia, which turned into a week-long three-wheeled date. We took the time to shop for fabric, get clothes made at Senegalese tailors, explore districts of Dakar, and sleep A LOT. My goal was to do some serious family bonding, since it was the last week of summer for by brother and sister. As it turns out, some cousins had the same idea, and the house was full of people from 10 years old to 25, all intent on paying their respects to my Grandmother before they went back to their respective homes. I’ve gotten into the habit of leaving my door unlocked/open at all times so my family doesn’t feel like I’m shutting myself away. The result…my cousins and I ended up getting pretty familiar, to the point they would just walk into my room and throw themselves on my bed for a good nap. But we had a good time, reenacting American music videos we watched on TV, and generally invading personal space.

One night, Aloura, Nadia and I decided to have an expensive date night at one of the best restaurants in Dakar. It was located at a hotel, right on the beach, and was the epitome of  “where are all the white people at?” We drew attention to ourselves by refusing to speak French with our waiter, and instead spoke Wolof. Between the three of us, and our combined knowledge, we managed quite well. It was satisfying to see looks of incomprehension on the faces of the French elites sitting around us. Which…brings me to a travel rant!!!

The issue of language here in Senegal is complicated and wrought with both post-colonial and ethnic themes. French is the administrative language, the lingua franca that is hardly spoken in the home and learned in school from the age of 7 or so. Wolof is spoken by 80% of the people, as the Wolof ethnic group comprises 40% of the population. However, Senegal still has 6 official national languages (Wolof, Soninke, Seereer-Sin, Fula, Mandinka, and Diola), with a total of 20 native languages spoken. Despite the fact that more people speak Wolof than French, that does not mean that the school system, the government, or the businesses are in Wolof. Even though it is an oral language, it has been adapted to be written in roman characters, regardless of the fact that sounds appear in Wolof that do not exist in English. That means that I can write Wolof better than 95% of the people in this country, even though it is their native language. This also means that their entire education system is based on a language that they didn’t learn growing up. It would be like all of the United States speaking English at home, growing up with Engish, then learning Chinese in school (and being expected to speak Chinese for the rest of their career). Imagine, at the beginning of their studies, how students start school without knowing the language.

The issue of choosing a national language is sensitive because of the importance and identity of surrounding ethnic groups. To choose one would be to imply that it is superior to the other ethnic groups/languages. Yes, Wolof is the logical choice because it is already a lingua franca for most of the Senegalese population, and some would rather have an administrative language which is actually African, and speaks to their identity, rather than French. French is sometimes perceived as a constant reminder of colonial superiority. However, Pulaar (Fula) is spoken widely throughout West Africa, if not specifically in Senegal. In a sense of regional politics, Pulaar is the best choice. However, French is spoken by chance, not by choice. After talking with a lot of Senegalese, from farmers in Northern Senegal, to wealthy businessmen/women in Dakar, and restaurant owners in the Casamance, it is clear the French is spoken out of necessity, and if they Senegalese had their choice, they wouldn't speak it at all.

In terms of foreigners and Wolof…Very, very, very few French speakers try and learn Wolof. For them, learning Wolof is pointless if they already speak the “official” language. Unfortunately, this does not endear them to the Senegalese, and who see it as something like a superiority complex. One of the reasons Senegalese can immediately tell I’m American is because I speak, or try to, Wolof with them. When I tell them that I came here to study their language they ask me why. Why did I choose to study a language that will allow me to go nowhere but within their own country? But I already speak some Spanish, French and English, three languages which are spoken worldwide and give rise to many opportunities. My choice to learn Wolof is based on respect, the respect of learning someone’s maternal language and the implied respect for their culture and African identity. Besides, none of the children can speak French, and they are my favorites to talk with.

Thus, that dinner in the fancy restaurant was interesting to experience. Speaking Wolof in an atmosphere which simply dripped Western wealth and French influence was a clashing of two worlds-the Wolof speaking Americans and the friendly staff. 

I cannot speak of the language of Senegal without going into detail on the insights it gives on Senegalese culture and their values. So I give you a situation..a young man approaches an older woman who is friends with the family. This is taking place in the middle of a busy place, for instance, on the edge of the sidewalk at rush-hour. Because it does not matter where you are or what you are doing, you always take the time to greet those people you know.

Abdoulaye Diop: younger man

Khadji Ndiaye: older woman

Diop: Asaalaam maalekum!................................ Peace be with you!

Ndiaye: Maalekum Saalaam!.............................. And with you!

Diop: Ndiaye! Na nga def?..................................Ndiaye! How are you?

Ndiaye: Diop! Maa ngi fii. ................................. Diop! I am here. (I'm fine)

Diop: Ndiaye!...................................................... Ndiaye!

Ndiaye: Diop! Naka waa kër ga? ....................... Diop! How is your family?

Diop: Nu nga fa. Ça vas?....................................They are there. (They are fine) How are you?

Ndiaye: Waaw, ça va. Ana waa kër ga?............. Yes, it's fine. Where is your family?

Diop: Nu nga fa. Yaa ngi noos?......................... They are there. You are well?

Ndiaye: Waaw, maa ngi santi yallah. Naka sa yaay?.......Yes, I am thanking God. How is your mother?

Diop: Jámm rekk, alxomdulilay. ....................... In peace only, thanks to God.

Ndiaye: Alxomdulilay. ..................................... Thanks to God. 

Now, these exchanges could go on for a up to 10 minutes. The last names are repeated over and over, one to the other, as an expression of respect for one's family and one's roots. As the collective community identity tends to supersede the individual identity, the appreciation of one's family is always of the utmost of importance. When making this kind of the greeting, if you say the other's last name more than them, it's like a sign of more respect. So whoever stops the last name repetition for the "Na nga def" part of the conversation is seen as the less respectful of the pair. Respect being held so high here, you can only imagine how long last names are exchanged. My host mom heads this off at the pass, by rapidly saying the other's last name several times before they can say anything, thus proving her respect and speeding up the conversation at the same time. I also only added two "ça va" exchanges when usually they are between every other sentence. Right when you think you know you're done with the ça va's all over the place, the other person will whip them out again. It's usually always a good fall-back though. If people really know each other well, these greetings can last a long time. They will work their way through all 4 wives and their children if they feel they need to. 

To not greet someone is very rude, even just passing in the street. But some mischievous Senegalese use this as a way of drawing you into a conversation when you might now want to, so I've gotten good at the over-the-shoulder "Asaalaam maalekum"s and a big smile to show I don't mean to be completely rude. Greetings are an essential part of life here in Senegal, and no one is spared. Except, of course, for those French who don't speak Wolof and are therefore missing out on this wonderful facet of Senegalese culture. Now, I know I'm going to go home wishing everyone peace and asking about their distant families when I don't even know the person. But it makes a large city feel small, with everyone open to greet you and have a conversation. It also makes me realize how much American culture is merely a layer of bubbles. Each person is rushing between his or her points in life, sometimes without even looking up to see what is around them. I didn't realize how much of myself I internalized until I was forced to tell everyone from the neighborhood guard, my maid, my host-mom, the lady who sells corn on the corner, the boy at the corner boutique, the owner of the pharmacy down the road, or the man washing taxis on the corner how I, my family, and my studies were going. And this is just the walk to school! This culture is so open and welcoming, and it only serves to show me how isolated each person is in American culture, walking past the same people everyday in complete anonymity. 

“People travel to faraway places to watch, in fascination, the kind of people they ignore at home.” – Dagobert D. Runes

Les Almadies

Le Momument de la Renaissance Africaine

Nadia and I walked all 196 steps

View from the Momument

Delicious Expensive Dinner.. yumm!

Dinner date!

Crazy bougie pool at the restaurant..

Toubab Dialow

Welcome to Toubab Dialow...

Gardens in hotel

Door obsession!

Artisan Resort in Toubab Dialow

Stairs to the beach from our hotel

Toubab Dialow

We climb big rocks!

Sarai and I taking advantage of down time..

One of my favorite things about this program is their emphasis on "mental health." We had barely finished Orientation and the first two weeks of the program, when we were packed off to an "art colony" for a weekend of relaxation. This is the point where I start to believe, just a little, that my Grandfather is right in thinking I never actually do work here. The alleged art colony was in fact an artsy resort right on the ocean and beautiful stretches of beaches, just 2.5 hours south of Dakar by bus. We spent the weekend relaxing, taking art, drum, and dance lessons, and generally soaking up the sun (not to mention the wonderful food). The highlights are as follows....

Dinner time!

We showed up early one Saturday morning to school, ready to pile into the buses. When our transportation arrived, my mouth dropped. This was not the rusty, rattling, constantly-breaking-down school bus (don't forget the projectile back seats) of my last program. Oh no. We had two air-conditioned, newly upholstered buses equipped with baggage space, tinted windows (!) and a fully functioning engine.

Senegalese dancers

There is but one main road off the peninsula on which Dakar has spread over the many years of development. One highway, la route nationale, for all the traffic for an entire nation's capital. Needless to say, there is traffic all the time, regardless of a "rush hour," which doesn't even bear thinking about. Sitting in my first-class seat, gazing out a tinted window, and breathing fresh, cool air, I might as well have been on a different planet from the heat, bustle and pollution just outside my window. Traveling through Dakar like that only served to make me uncomfortably aware of the differences between my social/economic position and 90% of the people outside my window. People stared, pointed, and children yelled after us "heey! Tubaabs!" I remembered traveling through the Casamance and the Gambia, being just as uncomfortable, just as hot, and just as miserable as everyone else. We were on the same playing field, if just for the period of time it took to transport us, as everyone else. After experiencing both worlds.. I was surprised to find that as comfortable as I was, I would rather be on those stuffy, overcrowded buses if it meant people would stare less at me. But, things being what they were, I just turned by back from the window, and talked with my friends.

Participating in an evening dance/drum exhibition

Tubaab Dialow itself is just a fishing village on the coast, valued for it's fabulous beach-front hotels. We stayed in hotels with seashell and tile mosaics covering all the walls, and walkways of beautiful stone. The architecture was unique, consisting of circular towers, flowing arches, and tiered buildings. Flowering plants and vines were all along the paths and the buildings, making you think you were staying in some kind of seashell/foliage Eden. The whole structure sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean, creating a point that jutted over the beach. With no official classes, we spent hours swimming in the ocean and climbing huge rocks that were just off the beach. It was a time for relaxation and for the students to let off some steam about host families, cultural difficulties, and language barriers. As usual, the pack of dogs that wander between hotels attached themselves to our group. One in particular was always with me. He looked like some kind of wire-haired hound, was as tall as my hip, and tended to come with me on all my long beach walks. Sadly, unlike my little kitten Michou, he was too big to smuggle back to Dakar with me...

One evening, my friends and I decided to take a moon-lit walk on the beach, after obtaining permission from our program directors. Beaches in tourist locations like this are typically pretty safe, since a town can't have their source of revenue scared off from ever coming again. Most of us (about 30 or so) walked down to the beach and found a bar willing to remain open a little longer for us. We sat in the sand under the moonlight, just taking in the moment and talking. After about half an hour, 6 friends, including myself, decided to go for a walk. We took our drinks (all non-alcoholic) and wandered away from the group, watching nocturnal crabs scatter before us. About half a mile down the beach, we were surprised by 3 men coming up to us out of the darkness. By that time, our group had split off in pairs, with Jenna and Joke at the back, two others by the water, and my friend Garrit and I in the lead. Two of the three strange men were in the uniform of Gendamarie, the local police force. The third had no uniform, and carried a large assault rifle. They approached Garrit and I, asking us our names, if we had an I.D. on us, where we were staying, what we were doing this late on the beach, if we were drinking alcohol, if we had any cigarettes on us, etc. Jenna and Joke had time to turn back, because they saw us talking with them, but Garrit, the other two, and I were not allowed to walk away. None of us had I.D. besides Garrit, who was able to pass it off by showing them his and quickly answering the rest of the questions so they wouldn't find out the rest of us didn't have ours.
By law, we are supposed to have either our original passports or a legal copy on our persons at all times. But, in my three months here, and traveling in two countries, the only time I've been asked for my passport and papers are at border crossings, and semi-legitimate military checkpoints. Never on the beach, and never in a situation like this. If he had found out we didn't have I.D.s, we could have been packed off to jail for up to 5 days and been forced to pay a fine. Jails here are not like the ones in the U.S., to say the least. The Gendamarie men then had the frustration of finding out that we were nothing more than American students taking a walk on the beach, within sight of their hotel, with non-alcoholic beverages, sans smoking materials, or any other sketchy behavior. However, they did make us lead them back to where the rest of the students were relaxing on the beach. Like any busted college party in the U.S., we were lined up and asked if we were drunk. Not that drinking was illegal anyway. However, we decided it would be a good idea to follow the directions of men wielding assault rifles. After finding nothing to get us in trouble, they threw out a reprimand for safety, telling us unsavory people could be on the beach at night. Even though, close as we were to our hotel, there was no danger besides the attention created by the policemen. When they finally left us, we felt that was our queue to head back to the hotel for the night. In the course of our 5 minute walk back to our rooms, we were stopped twice more. Both by Gendarmarie men without uniform and carrying large guns. Once, a pick-up truck carrying more police officers screeched to a halt by our group, men swarming out and telling us to go home. We saw more police marching men they had just arrested to vans. It seemed we had chosen the one night when the local police force decided to crack down on the local marijuana community, which at least explained the first Gendamarie's insistence on knowing whether or not we had been smoking that night. As intimidating as they were, we felt better knowing we were not the focus or direct target of the Gendamarie's attention. And for a word on the Gendamarie's side, they would have been in the right to punish us for smoking pot, since it's against the law here and is openly, and strictly, enforced.
The reactions of all the people in our group were kind of comical to watch. Though we had done nothing more than run across a night-time pot raid, which if you think about it, is only making the neighborhood safer, most felt as though a real crisis situation had just occurred. They gathered in the courtyard of the hotel, beating over the details of the night so much I thought I was going to scream. There were only a handful of us who weren't panicking, and we had been the ones to see the most of the Gendamarie men.

This was my third confrontation with armed men since I've been here. Senegal is a peaceful country, and is far removed from the kind of violence seen to the extent as it is experienced in the Lake Kivu region, Somalia, or Sudan. The Western perception of Africa is based upon the media, which grabs at conflict and ignores vibrant culture and life. Back in May and June, when I was preparing the leave, people would assume the most "African" situation they could imagine for me. Of course, I would be living in a hut in the middle of the desert. It was assumed I would basically living on a safari for a year while trying to avoid ethnic conflicts boiling around me. I got such questions as "do they even have cell phones there?" When Africa is one of the regions with the fastest growing telecommunications industry. "So, will you have to collect your own water everyday?" As if plumbing couldn't have existed anywhere outside suburbia. "Will you have to eat with your hands, is that sanitary?" Yes, I eat with my hands, but so do you. Or do you eat ribs, hamburgers, hot dogs, and sandwiches with a fork and knife? "Are you going to get AIDS?" Taking into consideration the means of transmission...and seeing as I don't plan on shooting up or having sex...no. "Are you going to be in danger, from, like, civil war?" Senegal is one of the most stable democracies on the continent, any danger I encounter is purely situational.--and in this case, it was actually benefiting a community, once I found out what was going on!
All the dire predictions people laid out for me, for the most part, are ignorant assumptions based on "everyone says that.." And, I'll have you know that if a sentence begins with "everyone says that.." it's probably wrong. This rant has a purpose, believe it or not, an it's to say that no one can lump experiences into a box. Yes, I have encountered some dangerous situations, but that does not mean Senegal falls into the category of conflict that most of the world associates with Africa. My experiences are exotic by American/Western standards, but should not be classified with the heading of "Everything in Africa Just Wants to Get You Sick, Eat You, or Kill You." There are parts of the United States that have the same, or worse, problems as Senegal, the only difference is the access to social/financial resources for development. Thanks to colonization and the economic exploitation on the part of first world nations, Senegal (and other developing nations) struggle for a economic and political foothold in a world that already has a head start.

Thus, I ask that when you read my blog, please do more than just read it. If you cannot be here with me-- experiencing, tasting, and smelling everything with me, then please use this blog as a portal. Shatter preconceptions and assumptions you might have had, think critically about what I'm writing. This is a window into a world most people don't get the chance to see, so please digest what I'm saying and don't view this blog as just a "cool story." I'm here to do more than acquire "cool stories," and if I walk away from this experience knowing I was able to change someone's fundamental preconceptions about Africa, then I will find my job here, as it were, done.

“To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.” –Aldous Huxley

Beach view hotel

Stepping Stones

It's the 1st of October, the beginning of a new month. I'm a little over a quarter of the way through my time here. I can't help but think of this day as a time for reflection..so, if you are reading this with someone, you might want to hold hands and sing a little Kumbaya. (Which, according to trusty Wikipedia, is associated with "human and spiritual unity, closeness and compassion, and it still is in many places around the world." Appropriate, right??)

“Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.” – Cesare Pavese

Being here is all about time for me. Time has come to define everything, on every level of my daily life as well as in the grand scheme of things. Getting ready every morning, I think about how long I have to get to eat breakfast, get to class, talk to friends and teachers. Every day in class (the boring ones) I think about the minute I have left before I can leave, or (in the good ones) I ignore time for as long as possible because I don't want to leave our discussion. Just like life at home, there are periods of rest where nothing is happening, then it picks up again and time rushes by as I get more busy. The time I experience here is the same as when I was at home, nothing really goes by faster or slower. But living here has given me a better sense of two juxtaposing concepts of time, for it is at once more infinite than I can ever imagine, while finite and defined at the same time. The wicked sense of homesickness which is always hovering in the back of my mind finds that sense of infinite time and makes me feel like an eternity will pass before I can see my family and friends again. --"What do you mean I can't punch my brother for another YEAR?"--But always a little more powerful than my homesickness is my curiosity and need for discovery, making the minutes rush by and making me think I will never see enough of this wonderful culture. I still have 3/4 of my year to go, and my homesick self sees a looming wall in front of me that will never be climbed; but still, I can look behind me and see this landmark as a huge stepping stone on the way home.

This day also makes me think back to my reasons for coming to Senegal (rather than France) and for a year (rather than a term). Only 10% of University-level students study abroad, a vast majority of whom participate in programs in Western Europe. 40% of these students study for a term, 4% for a year. I basically embody the tiniest possible statistic known to man, which is nice, in a way. And it's exactly what I wanted. I wanted an experience that no one else I know would relate to. When I say "no one else I know" I mean my family and most of my friends. Though I love them, I am the youngest, everyone does the cool things before me. So, that, coupled with a sense of competition and genuine interest in a culture completely different than mine, I felt bound to find a study abroad experience that only I could fully relate to. This tactic has worked out well for me in the past...and once again it payed off. I have found a place, fellow students, and a culture which stretch and defy all of my assumed norms. In this, I have fulfilled my most profound goals.

Yet, being away from home has had the inadvertent affect of making me realize exactly the things I find the most precious about my family, friends, and yes, this is going to be lame, but Oregon as well. And though Senegal has brought to me more knowledge, epiphanies, and memories than I ever knew were possible, I have come to see my sense of home is one of the things I treasure and cherish the most.

“When we get out of the glass bottle of our ego and when we escape like the squirrels in the cage of our personality and get into the forest again, we shall shiver with cold and fright. But things will happen to us so that we don’t know ourselves. Cool, unlying life will rush in.” – D.H. Lawrence