Wayward Travels: 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.