I am living one life in two places. It isn't that I'm not fully present here. I am. I am also semi-present, mentally I mean, in the United States. On the walk home I chat with friends about restaurants on the west bank campus, stopping at the little market/boutique to practice Wolof greetings and buy a bottle of water. I thank the man in Wolof, say goodbye in French, then continue my English conversation.
My first name is Johanna. My last name is Gorman-Baer. I live on the West Bank, in Minneapolis.
Maangi tudd Aminata. Maangi sant Gorman-Baer. Maangi dëkk Liberté 3, ci Dakar.
My sister is fourteen and stays up late for hours writing stories on her laptop. My sister is fifteen and stays up late for hours text-message-chatting with her (semi-secret) boyfriend on her cell phone. My father rides a van to work at the local university library. My father rides a moped to work at the local university eco-magazine. My mother bakes pies. My mother fries fatayas. Every morning I wake up and walk 15 minutes to school, where I have class sometimes 9-6. Every morning I wake up and walk 45 minutes to school where I have class sometimes 9-6. I speak French, English, and am learning Wolof. At school I have internet access and am two blocks from the ocean. I use my laptop to write papers and blog and check facebook and I leave it locked in the WARC office every night before heading home to watch Shaggy and Scooby with my brother. At dinnertime I have started to pick out words I know in Wolof, and I eat with my right hand even though my siblings use forks.
Last night I dreamed in French. I dreamed that me and a few classmates from WARC had internships helping translate for Solo and Ensemble music competitions at high schools in the midwest USA. We couldn't go to the supermarché because the Sénégalais mafia was there and they only spoke Wolof, which I tried to understand but couldn't. My dream was in french, and it was set in Wisconsin, featuring my friends from here and events from there. That is how I am now. It's better to wish you were here than to wish I was there. And I wouldn't be anywhere else for anything. The worlds are two different to find a "comprimise", they're not competing for space in my mind, just both completely occupying it. At the same time. Does that make sense?
I met some of my sister's friends last night. We went to buy bread for dinner and a few girls were there. One- a tall, loud girl in a red shirt and blue skirt- runs up to me calling me friend and asking why I didn't hug her right away. She smiles so widely and speaks so quickly my head spins. Before I can reply she embraces me, chattering in Wolof to Raïssa and the others. They start laughing and chattering back and I can catch the word "toubab" and they ask if I know Mariana who was the last girl who stayed with my family, who apparently was very very popular with all of them. The energetic girl stops talking, and stares at me. I stare back. Finally she says "you're pretty" and they all laugh. She asks if I'm ready to be her friend.
Now, this might just be my own personal cultural baggage, but when I heard the phrase "are you ready to be my friend" I thought it would be followed with either a request for money or some sort of dare. She insisted she just wanted to be my friend. I said of course we could be friends but was so confused and thrown off and every once in a while I'd catch one of them just staring at me, then laughing, and hardy any French was being spoken, just Wolof, and I was so glad when we finally walked home, although my sister acted like nothing was strange. All she said in terms of explanation was that that girl was crazy, and lived with Bifals.
Then we went back home and my uncle came over and we shared a sheep's head. And by that I mean he and my dad shared a roasted sheep's head. I picked at the pieces that were recognizably muscle and tried to ignore how easily I could identify what the rest was.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Deux Images
Walking to school this morning I saw a man sitting in a plastic chair on the sidewalk, sipping coffee. He was wearing a brilliant white anango over immaculate blue jeans. Just as I passed him, he tossed his coffee cup into the street.
I have noticed a very large difference here between inside and outside. Or, perhaps the difference is better described as the home and the not-home. The inside/home is cleaned every day. I've probably mentioned before that sweeping is a big deal. You have to be constantly cleaning or the dust will quickly get ahead of you. That is the main difference. Inside is clean, and outside is sand. Of course, people are also part of the home- and people take as much care of their bodies as they do their houses, everyone showers at least once a day, and I have never seen so many well-dressed people in my life. Every block has another hair salon and on the walk home I pass at least three men cleaning their feet in front of their houses.
Which is why I am confused to stumble upon banana peels, coffee cups (terracottaburntsienna- remember?), plastic bags, and fish heads half buried in the piles of sand that are dumped in the middle of sidewalks, pouring into the street. I try and keep my head up to notice the colors and signs and people and CARS that are all around me, but il faut toujours/you must always keep your eyes on the ground especially while walking in flipflops on the curb/in the street/in the sand/on the sidewalk. There is never a straight line, and never a flat surface. The flattest surface is the street, where the cars rush up from behind you and the taxis don't stop. The safest is the curb, which sometimes is missing both street and sidewalk to either side. The sidewalk is the least consistent sometimes being composed entirely of sand, sometimes cobblestones, but if it is made of cobblestones then that means you can park your car there or plant low-hanging well-pruned trees there or perhaps leave a bench or pile of garbage.
This man, then, that can sip a cup of coffee without spilling a drop on his shirt, who can wear a traditional costume and blue jeans and keep them both free of the sand he sits in (but never sits on the ground, he sits in a chair, you can always tell an American because of his or her willingness to sit on the ground because he or she is used to grass lawns that don't soil your clothes), who will always remember to wash his feet and brush his teeth and even if he does not own a mirror will have a maid to iron his shirts and sweep his floor- this man is accustomed to buying a cup of coffee from the street vendor every morning, a cup that to dust shall return.
Yesterday my sister Raïssa came home with a pair of shoes. She had just bought them from a vendor for 3,000 CFA and was very excited because they were a very popular name brand. The shoes were for Pascal, our little brother.
And he was so excited he paraded around the house for a full ten minutes, showing everyone. Raïssa was so proud. She told me she had saved up for a long time, but when she saw the shoes she couldn't resist. She told me that perhaps she had paid too much but it was worth it because it was such a good brand, a popular name brand. (I had never heard of that name or at least couldn't understand it with her accent. Sometimes that happens when people ask me about "Maïktaïsonne" or "Lozan-djellaise") She was grinning ear to ear all evening.
Three hours before that, my siblings had had a huge fight, and I'm not sure exactly what about but I know it stemmed from the fact that I posted pictures of them on facebook and Raïssa wanted me to send her one to use as a profile picture and Pascal wanted her to use a picture of him or of them both instead. It ended with him crying and her getting scolded in very rapid Wolof and she left to buy bread, and came back with these shoes. These 3,000 CFA shoes.
Now, I know I'm new here and still can't get a grasp of how much things cost but I know bread, cookies, and bananas cost about 100 and 1.5 litres of water costs 400 and my flipflops were 500 and my notebook was 250. I know that if I try and use a bill higher than 2,000 at any place other than the supermarket people won't have change. (For perspective, 500 CFA is about a dollar). Pens (Bic, people say "bic" for pen just like we say "kleenex" for tissue) (on a totally unrelated note, in Wolof the world "Kleenex" would be pronounced "klenn-ehhh-kh"), pens cost about 250 too. A meal at WARC is anywhere from 500 to 1500, and a box of juice is 800. So, if you're still with me, 3,000 is a lot.
This morning Mama Binta handed me one of the shoes. She told me to try it on, saying that they are a little too big for Pascal, actually, and she guessed my feet are sized somewhere between my brother and sister. I protested, but she had me try the shoe nonetheless. Luckily, it was too small. She left the room, talking about some niece or nephew that might be able to wear them. It wasn't until just now that I realize the idea of "you'll grow into it" doesn't apply. You don't save money, when you can buy nice name-brand shoes, even if the shoes don't fit you. You don't save the shoes if they don't fit, if you have a relative who might be able to wear them.
Et voilà. Two stories that sum up my idea of Senegal, so far. Senegal on a postage stamp. Which reminds me. If you want me to send you a postcard, I have no idea if it will work or not or when you'll get them, but send me your address! I'll try and figure out how to get one in the mail.
I have noticed a very large difference here between inside and outside. Or, perhaps the difference is better described as the home and the not-home. The inside/home is cleaned every day. I've probably mentioned before that sweeping is a big deal. You have to be constantly cleaning or the dust will quickly get ahead of you. That is the main difference. Inside is clean, and outside is sand. Of course, people are also part of the home- and people take as much care of their bodies as they do their houses, everyone showers at least once a day, and I have never seen so many well-dressed people in my life. Every block has another hair salon and on the walk home I pass at least three men cleaning their feet in front of their houses.
Which is why I am confused to stumble upon banana peels, coffee cups (terracottaburntsienna- remember?), plastic bags, and fish heads half buried in the piles of sand that are dumped in the middle of sidewalks, pouring into the street. I try and keep my head up to notice the colors and signs and people and CARS that are all around me, but il faut toujours/you must always keep your eyes on the ground especially while walking in flipflops on the curb/in the street/in the sand/on the sidewalk. There is never a straight line, and never a flat surface. The flattest surface is the street, where the cars rush up from behind you and the taxis don't stop. The safest is the curb, which sometimes is missing both street and sidewalk to either side. The sidewalk is the least consistent sometimes being composed entirely of sand, sometimes cobblestones, but if it is made of cobblestones then that means you can park your car there or plant low-hanging well-pruned trees there or perhaps leave a bench or pile of garbage.
This man, then, that can sip a cup of coffee without spilling a drop on his shirt, who can wear a traditional costume and blue jeans and keep them both free of the sand he sits in (but never sits on the ground, he sits in a chair, you can always tell an American because of his or her willingness to sit on the ground because he or she is used to grass lawns that don't soil your clothes), who will always remember to wash his feet and brush his teeth and even if he does not own a mirror will have a maid to iron his shirts and sweep his floor- this man is accustomed to buying a cup of coffee from the street vendor every morning, a cup that to dust shall return.
Yesterday my sister Raïssa came home with a pair of shoes. She had just bought them from a vendor for 3,000 CFA and was very excited because they were a very popular name brand. The shoes were for Pascal, our little brother.
And he was so excited he paraded around the house for a full ten minutes, showing everyone. Raïssa was so proud. She told me she had saved up for a long time, but when she saw the shoes she couldn't resist. She told me that perhaps she had paid too much but it was worth it because it was such a good brand, a popular name brand. (I had never heard of that name or at least couldn't understand it with her accent. Sometimes that happens when people ask me about "Maïktaïsonne" or "Lozan-djellaise") She was grinning ear to ear all evening.
Three hours before that, my siblings had had a huge fight, and I'm not sure exactly what about but I know it stemmed from the fact that I posted pictures of them on facebook and Raïssa wanted me to send her one to use as a profile picture and Pascal wanted her to use a picture of him or of them both instead. It ended with him crying and her getting scolded in very rapid Wolof and she left to buy bread, and came back with these shoes. These 3,000 CFA shoes.
Now, I know I'm new here and still can't get a grasp of how much things cost but I know bread, cookies, and bananas cost about 100 and 1.5 litres of water costs 400 and my flipflops were 500 and my notebook was 250. I know that if I try and use a bill higher than 2,000 at any place other than the supermarket people won't have change. (For perspective, 500 CFA is about a dollar). Pens (Bic, people say "bic" for pen just like we say "kleenex" for tissue) (on a totally unrelated note, in Wolof the world "Kleenex" would be pronounced "klenn-ehhh-kh"), pens cost about 250 too. A meal at WARC is anywhere from 500 to 1500, and a box of juice is 800. So, if you're still with me, 3,000 is a lot.
This morning Mama Binta handed me one of the shoes. She told me to try it on, saying that they are a little too big for Pascal, actually, and she guessed my feet are sized somewhere between my brother and sister. I protested, but she had me try the shoe nonetheless. Luckily, it was too small. She left the room, talking about some niece or nephew that might be able to wear them. It wasn't until just now that I realize the idea of "you'll grow into it" doesn't apply. You don't save money, when you can buy nice name-brand shoes, even if the shoes don't fit you. You don't save the shoes if they don't fit, if you have a relative who might be able to wear them.
Et voilà. Two stories that sum up my idea of Senegal, so far. Senegal on a postage stamp. Which reminds me. If you want me to send you a postcard, I have no idea if it will work or not or when you'll get them, but send me your address! I'll try and figure out how to get one in the mail.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
It's about 12:25, Wednesday afternoon. We're supposed to have our class in Environment and Development from noon until three. The teacher just got here, but since a few from our group just ordered lunch at the WARC restaurant, he's waiting until they finish eating to start class. Only, they just ordered. So we're officially on West African International Time (W.A.I.T.)
Things there are a lot of here:
Stray cats. They jump onto the roof at night and since chez moi, at my house, the roof is corrugated iron, I have a heart attack nearly every time.
Stray dogs. They would scare me except the fact that I've never seen a stray dog walk at any pace faster than a lazy meander, or make a sound louder than the back-of-the-throat whine that accompanies a wide yawn. There's enough food for them in the street, in piles or oil-drum garbage cans that they're less feral and more domestic-by-default. The supermarket sells dog food, but I don't know what for.
Toothpicks. Everyone's got a toothpick or this kind of twig people chew on like a sort of makeshift toothbrush, they talk for hours without it falling from their lips, you can buy bundles of them off the street. (You can buy anything off the street, including phone credit, tissues, bananas, socks, coffee) One of the other students told us that the last thing Muhammed did before he died was clean his teeth with a toothpick, and that's why everyone here puts such importance on dental hygiene, at least in terms of toothpicks. I am not sure if I believe that or not.
Flies. They're the same plain black flies as at home, but these ones have no shame.
Taxis. I've never been in a taxi in the United States, or had to deal with them much at all. I have ridden in a few here, always with my family or classmates, and it is one of the scariest things I've ever done, with the exception of trying to cross a street in Dakar. They don't stop. (for pedestrians). When they do, it is sudden and abrupt, and could possibly be followed by them backing up, perhaps on a highway, if they've missed the exit or intersection. Also, they honk at you, loudly. Sometimes it is a warning that you're about to be run over, sometimes they're "asking" if you want a ride- this can also be communicated by hissing. Which is also how you call a taxi. TSSSSSST TSSSSST is something I have yet to get used to.
Coffee cups. And when I say "coffee cups", I mean something completely different. I mean little terra-cotta burnt-sienna colored plastic dixie cups. Street vendors sell coffee, and by that I mean Nescafé Instant Coffee, you can get it with some sort of spice that's particular to this area in which case it's called "Café Touba" but I haven't tried that yet. You see these cups in peoples' hands, but more often on the ground, crumpled up in the sand, swept into piles by men and women wearing face masks. They litter the ground everywhere.
Onions. I'm still waiting for the day when I'll actually not mind. But I'm eating them! In hopes that some day my family will get used to the idea that I don't eat as much as they want me to. Ever.
BAOBABS. :D
Brooms. Not with long handles, more like long bristles with a round ball of plastic bag at the end. People here sweep constantly, inside and outside. You have to, when there's sand and wind and open doors.
Things that are not at all common around here (as far as I can see)
Toilet paper. The hotel had a role of pink toilet paper, and you can get it at the supermarket, but I have no idea why a store would stock it except for students and tourists. And I've just figured out to bring extra TP with me to the bathroom, to dry off the seat.
Pencils. Everyone uses pens. It's just a difference.
Pillows. But at least, I've found a use for my sweatshirt. Actually, that's a lie. The first few nights I used my sweatshirt as a pillow, but now it's getting chilly (we're in the cold, dry season)
and I've been getting used to sleeping without a pillow. I think some other families have them, but mine doesn't. There's also no mirror at my house which I didn't realize until trying to apply sunscreen.
Cranberry juice. Which, if you know me, is a sad sad fact. However, Bissap (Hibiscus) juice tastes exactly like cran/raspberry juice and you can get it for roughly 800 CFA which is about a dollar and a quarter. I brought some home and I think it was a hit with the maids, until I realized it was they who had to wash all the cups I used. Oh well.
Squirrels. It's true. Though I don't know why I put that.
(later)
Last night I went to the "MyShop" with some friends after class. It's a convenience store with WiFi, and they have a few fast food places inside too. Students tend to collect there because they have a huge variety of American products- including Ben&Jerry's ice cream, by the pint. I got home late, then, after dark, but it was still well before dinner so Djouma teased me a bit but it wasn't a problem. (Besides, I had a peace offering of Bissap for everyone) Mama Binta was just leaving for the Baobab quartier/neighborhood (we're in Liberté 3), and Pascal would not stop laughing as he told me that it was Papa's turn to make dinner. Mama arrived just before we started eating, but spent the next ten minutes and cleaning and clucking at the mess she said Papa always left in the kitchen when he cooks. I tried to help, and pretended to see the mess on the floor she had me sweep up.
My father made pasta with meat sauce, and by "meat sauce" I mean some chopped up tomatoes and onions, and these tiny spicy sausages, with lots and lots of parmesan cheese. I declined the ketchup. I didn't eat much but I think everyone pretended not to notice. Raïssa had had class until about ten, so she got back after we were done eating. I was so exhausted I went to sleep soon after.
I found out that my parents are actually from different parts of Mali, which is a big part of why the Wolof I'm learning in class sounds different from the Wolof I hear at home- it has something to do with accent, I think, considering that even though all I've heard them speak is French and Wolof, often mixing the two, neither is the native language of either of them. I also found out that Mama Binta is from a Muslim family, and Papa Anicet is Catholic. I'm not sure about my siblings, although they are called by their middle names "Hadijaa" and "Adam' "- which may be Muslim names vs. their Catholic names?
Speaking of Wolof- back to class!
Things there are a lot of here:
Stray cats. They jump onto the roof at night and since chez moi, at my house, the roof is corrugated iron, I have a heart attack nearly every time.
Stray dogs. They would scare me except the fact that I've never seen a stray dog walk at any pace faster than a lazy meander, or make a sound louder than the back-of-the-throat whine that accompanies a wide yawn. There's enough food for them in the street, in piles or oil-drum garbage cans that they're less feral and more domestic-by-default. The supermarket sells dog food, but I don't know what for.
Toothpicks. Everyone's got a toothpick or this kind of twig people chew on like a sort of makeshift toothbrush, they talk for hours without it falling from their lips, you can buy bundles of them off the street. (You can buy anything off the street, including phone credit, tissues, bananas, socks, coffee) One of the other students told us that the last thing Muhammed did before he died was clean his teeth with a toothpick, and that's why everyone here puts such importance on dental hygiene, at least in terms of toothpicks. I am not sure if I believe that or not.
Flies. They're the same plain black flies as at home, but these ones have no shame.
Taxis. I've never been in a taxi in the United States, or had to deal with them much at all. I have ridden in a few here, always with my family or classmates, and it is one of the scariest things I've ever done, with the exception of trying to cross a street in Dakar. They don't stop. (for pedestrians). When they do, it is sudden and abrupt, and could possibly be followed by them backing up, perhaps on a highway, if they've missed the exit or intersection. Also, they honk at you, loudly. Sometimes it is a warning that you're about to be run over, sometimes they're "asking" if you want a ride- this can also be communicated by hissing. Which is also how you call a taxi. TSSSSSST TSSSSST is something I have yet to get used to.
Coffee cups. And when I say "coffee cups", I mean something completely different. I mean little terra-cotta burnt-sienna colored plastic dixie cups. Street vendors sell coffee, and by that I mean Nescafé Instant Coffee, you can get it with some sort of spice that's particular to this area in which case it's called "Café Touba" but I haven't tried that yet. You see these cups in peoples' hands, but more often on the ground, crumpled up in the sand, swept into piles by men and women wearing face masks. They litter the ground everywhere.
Onions. I'm still waiting for the day when I'll actually not mind. But I'm eating them! In hopes that some day my family will get used to the idea that I don't eat as much as they want me to. Ever.
BAOBABS. :D
Brooms. Not with long handles, more like long bristles with a round ball of plastic bag at the end. People here sweep constantly, inside and outside. You have to, when there's sand and wind and open doors.
Things that are not at all common around here (as far as I can see)
Toilet paper. The hotel had a role of pink toilet paper, and you can get it at the supermarket, but I have no idea why a store would stock it except for students and tourists. And I've just figured out to bring extra TP with me to the bathroom, to dry off the seat.
Pencils. Everyone uses pens. It's just a difference.
Pillows. But at least, I've found a use for my sweatshirt. Actually, that's a lie. The first few nights I used my sweatshirt as a pillow, but now it's getting chilly (we're in the cold, dry season)
and I've been getting used to sleeping without a pillow. I think some other families have them, but mine doesn't. There's also no mirror at my house which I didn't realize until trying to apply sunscreen.
Cranberry juice. Which, if you know me, is a sad sad fact. However, Bissap (Hibiscus) juice tastes exactly like cran/raspberry juice and you can get it for roughly 800 CFA which is about a dollar and a quarter. I brought some home and I think it was a hit with the maids, until I realized it was they who had to wash all the cups I used. Oh well.
Squirrels. It's true. Though I don't know why I put that.
(later)
Last night I went to the "MyShop" with some friends after class. It's a convenience store with WiFi, and they have a few fast food places inside too. Students tend to collect there because they have a huge variety of American products- including Ben&Jerry's ice cream, by the pint. I got home late, then, after dark, but it was still well before dinner so Djouma teased me a bit but it wasn't a problem. (Besides, I had a peace offering of Bissap for everyone) Mama Binta was just leaving for the Baobab quartier/neighborhood (we're in Liberté 3), and Pascal would not stop laughing as he told me that it was Papa's turn to make dinner. Mama arrived just before we started eating, but spent the next ten minutes and cleaning and clucking at the mess she said Papa always left in the kitchen when he cooks. I tried to help, and pretended to see the mess on the floor she had me sweep up.
My father made pasta with meat sauce, and by "meat sauce" I mean some chopped up tomatoes and onions, and these tiny spicy sausages, with lots and lots of parmesan cheese. I declined the ketchup. I didn't eat much but I think everyone pretended not to notice. Raïssa had had class until about ten, so she got back after we were done eating. I was so exhausted I went to sleep soon after.
I found out that my parents are actually from different parts of Mali, which is a big part of why the Wolof I'm learning in class sounds different from the Wolof I hear at home- it has something to do with accent, I think, considering that even though all I've heard them speak is French and Wolof, often mixing the two, neither is the native language of either of them. I also found out that Mama Binta is from a Muslim family, and Papa Anicet is Catholic. I'm not sure about my siblings, although they are called by their middle names "Hadijaa" and "Adam' "- which may be Muslim names vs. their Catholic names?
Speaking of Wolof- back to class!
Monday, January 25, 2010
So, what will you be doing in Senegal?
Eeeee! So, I know I've done more than enough typing for one day, really, I have, and once classes slash homework starts I promise I won't be as obsessive about updating...probably. But I finally have an answer to the most-asked question, that I get everywhere, as soon as I say "yeah, I'll be spending next semester in Senegal". The response, 99 percent of the time has been, "So what will you be doing there?"
Well.
I just talked to Waly who's in charge of the MSID program here about my internship. I spent maybe ten minutes talking to him, and I like to think I appeared very calm and collected. Inside I was dancing dancing dancing- here's why.
I signed up for the "Arts and culture" track... which is the only one of six tracks (Education, Environment, Public Health, Microfinances, and Literature being the other five) that is offered in India, Ecuador, Kenya- but not Senegal. I can't study it here. So I signed up for the Education track, and am going to audit Environment just because I find it interesting.
Even though I can't study arts and culture in a class, though, Waly found me two possibilities of doing/learning about traditional music as an internship. The first one was with a performing group in the town of Toubacouta, the second was learning about the style of singing, dancing, and drumming that accompanies the national sport of "Lutte"- a kind of wrestling. The first would be in a medium-sized town, the second in a very small village. Waly recommended the first option for two reasons. The first is that while women can do the drumming and singing, the focus is on the athletes and I wouldn't be doing as much. The second reason is as follows: My internship is supposed to be 25 hours- five hours a day for five weeks. Performing groups only meet at night, and it would be very hard to make up five hours a day in that case. In Toubacouta, I could do something like, oh, helping out with kids at a kindergarten (I hope I don't scare them all) maybe from 9-12, then resting in the afternoon, to then work with the performing group in the evenings.
I really can't think of anything more perfect for what I want to do here.
I mean, it's very very intimidating (just look at the picture! The first group, allah laké http://toubacouta.info/societe/troupes-de-danse-et-musique/) but I'm super excited. And, inshallah, it's going to be amazing.
Well.
I just talked to Waly who's in charge of the MSID program here about my internship. I spent maybe ten minutes talking to him, and I like to think I appeared very calm and collected. Inside I was dancing dancing dancing- here's why.
I signed up for the "Arts and culture" track... which is the only one of six tracks (Education, Environment, Public Health, Microfinances, and Literature being the other five) that is offered in India, Ecuador, Kenya- but not Senegal. I can't study it here. So I signed up for the Education track, and am going to audit Environment just because I find it interesting.
Even though I can't study arts and culture in a class, though, Waly found me two possibilities of doing/learning about traditional music as an internship. The first one was with a performing group in the town of Toubacouta, the second was learning about the style of singing, dancing, and drumming that accompanies the national sport of "Lutte"- a kind of wrestling. The first would be in a medium-sized town, the second in a very small village. Waly recommended the first option for two reasons. The first is that while women can do the drumming and singing, the focus is on the athletes and I wouldn't be doing as much. The second reason is as follows: My internship is supposed to be 25 hours- five hours a day for five weeks. Performing groups only meet at night, and it would be very hard to make up five hours a day in that case. In Toubacouta, I could do something like, oh, helping out with kids at a kindergarten (I hope I don't scare them all) maybe from 9-12, then resting in the afternoon, to then work with the performing group in the evenings.
I really can't think of anything more perfect for what I want to do here.
I mean, it's very very intimidating (just look at the picture! The first group, allah laké http://toubacouta.info/societe/troupes-de-danse-et-musique/) but I'm super excited. And, inshallah, it's going to be amazing.
Sidebar
hehe- I have 10 "followers!" What a great term. I think I know you all- who's "MONSTERZ" and "stardragon"? Just curious.
Le Weekend
Rollercoaster weekend- all ups and downs.
Saturday I got up, as usual, at 7. Cold water from the showerhead, warm water in a bucket below. Still working out the logistics of that. Tour of Dakar today.
We saw the Millennium Monument (not the big one), the rich quartiers, stopped at the beach on the westernmost point of Dakar, which is also the westernmost point of Senegal, which is also the westernmost point of Africa (except the islands) which is also the closest we'll ever be to home. Waved "hello" to the states, took pictures. Papa Anicet said later that when the sun sets it looks like you can see the torch of the Statue of Liberty on the horizon, because of the light. Le feu. Saw some beautiful cliffs, an old military bunker turned into someone's home, he tried to sell us something I'm not sure what. Saw Les Mamelles, two mountains like the Tetons but smaller. On top of one was a lighthouse, we got to go up inside it. The lightbulb is about as big as my thumb, it's surrounded by mirrors, though, and lenses- we got to go inside- it was like a funhouse optical illusion, looking at everyone's distorted images from either side.
On top of the other Mamelle is Le Monument de la Renaissance de l'Afrique. What an eyesore. Everyone thinks so. Monsieur Wade le President had it built- he "invented" it. And by "invented" I mean paid North Koreans the equivalent of $28 billion in tax money to manufacture this thing, made out of bronze which makes it the largest bronze statue probably ever, it's as big as the statue of liberty, except bronze is not one of Senegal's main natural resources. The Monument is of a man, helping a woman up from the ground and holding a baby on his other shoulder. The baby is pointing away, towards "the future". It's all very inspirational except for the fact that the direction this inspirational baby is pointing towards is West, away from Africa. Alors. I have yet to meet anyone who thinks that anything about this monument is a good idea. Sometime during our stay here will be it's "Inauguration"- it's still under construction, I think for all the stairs leading up to the thing, à la some South American Mayan temple.
http://www.afriscoop.net/journal/IMG/arton486.jpg
Waly told us to save him a spot in the future, when we go back to the states.
At this point in the tour is when I start to feel pretty bad. I mean, since I got up in the morning something was not right with regards to my personal health, but headache, etc was going on on the way back to WARC. We ordered lunch- I had chicken and fries, but I couldn't touch it. Hadn't eaten anything all day, but I couldn't stomach any food. This was bound to happen. Instead of lunch I blogged, checked email, woke up my family (*my* family, not my (host) family) with a phone call till my credit ran out... everyone went to the beach, and I stayed behind and napped outside, that plus the advil Joey gave me had me feeling much better by the time we got home.
My family (my (host) family, not *my* family) appreciated the chicken I brought home, asked how my day was, I said I had been feeling sick but was better now. My brother's sick, he's got a cold or something, hasn't been eating much for the past few days. My sister too, has some sort of fever, it's not the same as Pascal but she's been sleeping a lot. I didn't catch either of these, mine was just to get used to the food here (turns out about half the group has/had some sort of ickiness this weekend, as I found out this morning) apparrently it takes a week for the body to realize that these new sleeping/eating patterns are not going to change so you might as well get used to it.
But since I was feeling better, just exhausted, if I sat and watched TV which is really the "thing to do" here, television sets are always on, I would absolutely fall asleep. Same if I went into my room and read my book considering my book is "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace (which should explain my long-windedness and crazy writing habits, he's my one source of English at home)(I also brought The Epic of Gilgamesh and Twelfth Night. In hindsight perhaps something lighter would have been wise) No, instead I went out into le jardin to help Mama Binta with the fatayas. I really did end up learning the name of that boy who mumbles, I really did, I just forgot it since then. I have also learned that Djouma is the maid, la bonne, who is tiny but has amazingly muscular arms for someone who looks to be about fifteen, and Yassine is the other maid who is absolutely beautiful but never smiles with her mouth, just her eyes. We all were working, with my sister and mother too. Saturdays aren't really Saturdays like I'm used to, then.
But I absolutely rock at making fatayas. I graduated from the small triangular ones to the larger semicircular ones that are much harder to press, and I glowed when the mumbler told me (in the first sentence I think he's ever said to me that I could understand) that he told Mama Binta that I was a very good worker. I realize of course, that he probably did not expect some student from the states to start helping right away, and work for so long- by long I mean a few hours at a time, maybe three, as opposed to the others who work from 7 or 8 in the morning until dinner at 9 or 10 at night. But I was ready to celebrate moi-même, myself, at being useful and even remotely competent at something. I can't light the gas stove or eat soup without asking how, but I am un bon travailleur at helping fold fatayas.
We worked until dinnertime- beef stew with potatoes, and since I hadn't eaten all day, I was actually hungry and it was very very good. I also got to witness the phenomenon that is "Vaidehi".
Vaidehi is an Indian soap opera that people here can't get enough of. Everything stops for Vaidehi. When it's on television (Saturday and Sunday nights around 9pm) you stop cooking dinner, or serving dinner, or going shopping, and you find the closest television (knock on doors if you have to) and you watch this show. It's dubbed in French, from the Hindi (I'm assuming). Now, I've seen a lot of bad movies. Films that are truly terrible. They ain't got nothin' on this show. But- you don't laugh at Vaidehi. You don't make fun of it, or point out mistakes. People take this show very seriously. Follow it like any Grey's Anatomy fans or So You Think You Can Dance fans, they know the history of each character and what is going on and pay rapt attention to the screen. I think this weekend was a pivotal episode. Someone got framed for someone's death or something. Oh, and one girl's pregnant. That's about all I got. But I was highly entertained.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKJL09-5xVw&feature=related
At this point in the night though things got to be a bit much. I hadn't had a very good day, there was Indian/French bad television blaring and my family conversing about it in Wolof and I was already full to bursting when they told me I'd missed the best part of the stew, and pushed a huuuuuge chunk of fat over to my side of the dish. I nibbled what meat there was off the corner. That wouldn't do. Everyone else was sucking on the marrow bones that I had foolishly, politely, refused. Silly me. More for them. It's not so much that it's a huge chunk of fat- it's that it's a huge chunk of fat that I can't chew. I tried biting off pieces small enough to swallow whole, which worked a few times but in the end my brain caught up with me and in one moment of "oh my god I'm eating a huge chunk of fat" I did gag a little. Not noticably so, and so excusing myself to get some water I did the classic American Student In a Strange Environment thing to do- spit the rest of the fat in my hand and hid it in a corner of the sink. I am ashamed. Truly ashamed. But on such a rollercoaster day, enough is enough. It's bad timing, really. I was so exhausted intellectually, physically, emotionally I just went to bed, right then and there.
I love Sundays. Did I mention I love Sundays? Sundays are my favorite days of the week, from now on. Every day I get up at 7am, for a cold-shower-hot-rinse. Sundays everyone sleeps until 11, when it's so hot I appreciate the cold shower. We eat breakfast slowly, clean up even more slowly, and do any work that might need to be done (counting fatayas is a great way to practice elementary French- we had deux-cent-soixante-douze small ones and quartre-vingt-dix-sept large ones) before making lunch. Mama Binta told me that every Sunday I'm not out with friends, she'll teach me how to make a different Senegalais dish. This one was called "Yassa"- if you want to taste some of what I'm tasting, pay attention:
YASSA
Ingredients-
Onions (lots of onions, always onions, onions in everything, more onions than meat) cut in big rings
La Viande- meat (beef, with the marrow bones left in, of course, and don't you dare trim the fat) cut in thin, long strips
Les Piments- hot peppers, just one or two, leave them whole just to add a little flavor
Garlic, lemon juice, green pepper, "Maggi" (which is a cube of spices, I'm not sure which kinds are included, it's just a generic serving of spices), a little vinegar, some mustard, some black pepper, dried hot pepper: you mix all of these together with "le mortier et pilon" (huge morter and pestle) to make a sort of paste that you rub on the onions, meat and peppers, add lemon juice and vinegar, like a marinate/spice rub/paste.
Grill the meat separately, and when the meat's cooked, put it in a pot with some oil and water (1 part oil 2 parts water) to simmer, to make it more tender. When the meat's nice and tender, put the onions and peppers into the pot, cover and let cook for about 15 minutes? until the onions are all cooked.
Serve over short-grain white rice. If you want a more authentic feel, serve around 3 or 4 pm in a huge dish and eat with your right hand. If you want to feel like me, be sure to spill half the rice on your lap, table, and floor, squeezing the rice into balls that look perfect in your hand, but fall apart instantly on the trip from hand-to-mouth.
Another reason I love Sundays. After lunch is nap time. Une petite sieste, wake up at 5:30 and go either to the beach or if it's too cold (and I guess 70 degrees is freezing here) go visiting family. I walked with Mama Binta to the Baobab neighborhood to meet her mother. She then told me to stay there so I sat awkwardly watching dubbed Extreme Home Makeover with various family members who were coming and going including that poor girl who is still terrified of the fact that my hair's too big. I forgot to bring my cell phone. I have no idea how long I sat there. Someone, we'll call him an uncle, tried to speak English with me for a while but we ran out of common vocabulary in English and Wolof and he finally called Mama Binta to ask when she was coming to get me. (I know this because by this time it was well past dark and the family was starting to mutter to each other and I did hear the words "toubab" and "Binta" and "fataya" and considering i was the only "toubab" (white girl) there and there was still no sign of "Binta" anywhere I think it's safe to assume. Mama Binta showed up and after a bit of chitchat we took a taxi home to catch the next episode of Vaidehi before dinner.
Another reason I love Sundays. Mama Binta explained to me that since we eat huge fatty dinners (no kidding) pendant/during the whole week, Sunday dinner is just a little porridge. It's like oatmeal, but made out of something similar to barley. You eat it with sweetened milk/cream and yogurt. This is my first meal that I could actually finish. I love Sundays. Did I mention I love Sundays? I love Sundays.
Classes start today, at four. We met from 9-11 to meet all the teachers, and now I don't have class for another three hours. This English break has been nice, but I've been typing for almost two hours. I'll see you all later.
Saturday I got up, as usual, at 7. Cold water from the showerhead, warm water in a bucket below. Still working out the logistics of that. Tour of Dakar today.
We saw the Millennium Monument (not the big one), the rich quartiers, stopped at the beach on the westernmost point of Dakar, which is also the westernmost point of Senegal, which is also the westernmost point of Africa (except the islands) which is also the closest we'll ever be to home. Waved "hello" to the states, took pictures. Papa Anicet said later that when the sun sets it looks like you can see the torch of the Statue of Liberty on the horizon, because of the light. Le feu. Saw some beautiful cliffs, an old military bunker turned into someone's home, he tried to sell us something I'm not sure what. Saw Les Mamelles, two mountains like the Tetons but smaller. On top of one was a lighthouse, we got to go up inside it. The lightbulb is about as big as my thumb, it's surrounded by mirrors, though, and lenses- we got to go inside- it was like a funhouse optical illusion, looking at everyone's distorted images from either side.
On top of the other Mamelle is Le Monument de la Renaissance de l'Afrique. What an eyesore. Everyone thinks so. Monsieur Wade le President had it built- he "invented" it. And by "invented" I mean paid North Koreans the equivalent of $28 billion in tax money to manufacture this thing, made out of bronze which makes it the largest bronze statue probably ever, it's as big as the statue of liberty, except bronze is not one of Senegal's main natural resources. The Monument is of a man, helping a woman up from the ground and holding a baby on his other shoulder. The baby is pointing away, towards "the future". It's all very inspirational except for the fact that the direction this inspirational baby is pointing towards is West, away from Africa. Alors. I have yet to meet anyone who thinks that anything about this monument is a good idea. Sometime during our stay here will be it's "Inauguration"- it's still under construction, I think for all the stairs leading up to the thing, à la some South American Mayan temple.
http://www.afriscoop.net/journal/IMG/arton486.jpg
Waly told us to save him a spot in the future, when we go back to the states.
At this point in the tour is when I start to feel pretty bad. I mean, since I got up in the morning something was not right with regards to my personal health, but headache, etc was going on on the way back to WARC. We ordered lunch- I had chicken and fries, but I couldn't touch it. Hadn't eaten anything all day, but I couldn't stomach any food. This was bound to happen. Instead of lunch I blogged, checked email, woke up my family (*my* family, not my (host) family) with a phone call till my credit ran out... everyone went to the beach, and I stayed behind and napped outside, that plus the advil Joey gave me had me feeling much better by the time we got home.
My family (my (host) family, not *my* family) appreciated the chicken I brought home, asked how my day was, I said I had been feeling sick but was better now. My brother's sick, he's got a cold or something, hasn't been eating much for the past few days. My sister too, has some sort of fever, it's not the same as Pascal but she's been sleeping a lot. I didn't catch either of these, mine was just to get used to the food here (turns out about half the group has/had some sort of ickiness this weekend, as I found out this morning) apparrently it takes a week for the body to realize that these new sleeping/eating patterns are not going to change so you might as well get used to it.
But since I was feeling better, just exhausted, if I sat and watched TV which is really the "thing to do" here, television sets are always on, I would absolutely fall asleep. Same if I went into my room and read my book considering my book is "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace (which should explain my long-windedness and crazy writing habits, he's my one source of English at home)(I also brought The Epic of Gilgamesh and Twelfth Night. In hindsight perhaps something lighter would have been wise) No, instead I went out into le jardin to help Mama Binta with the fatayas. I really did end up learning the name of that boy who mumbles, I really did, I just forgot it since then. I have also learned that Djouma is the maid, la bonne, who is tiny but has amazingly muscular arms for someone who looks to be about fifteen, and Yassine is the other maid who is absolutely beautiful but never smiles with her mouth, just her eyes. We all were working, with my sister and mother too. Saturdays aren't really Saturdays like I'm used to, then.
But I absolutely rock at making fatayas. I graduated from the small triangular ones to the larger semicircular ones that are much harder to press, and I glowed when the mumbler told me (in the first sentence I think he's ever said to me that I could understand) that he told Mama Binta that I was a very good worker. I realize of course, that he probably did not expect some student from the states to start helping right away, and work for so long- by long I mean a few hours at a time, maybe three, as opposed to the others who work from 7 or 8 in the morning until dinner at 9 or 10 at night. But I was ready to celebrate moi-même, myself, at being useful and even remotely competent at something. I can't light the gas stove or eat soup without asking how, but I am un bon travailleur at helping fold fatayas.
We worked until dinnertime- beef stew with potatoes, and since I hadn't eaten all day, I was actually hungry and it was very very good. I also got to witness the phenomenon that is "Vaidehi".
Vaidehi is an Indian soap opera that people here can't get enough of. Everything stops for Vaidehi. When it's on television (Saturday and Sunday nights around 9pm) you stop cooking dinner, or serving dinner, or going shopping, and you find the closest television (knock on doors if you have to) and you watch this show. It's dubbed in French, from the Hindi (I'm assuming). Now, I've seen a lot of bad movies. Films that are truly terrible. They ain't got nothin' on this show. But- you don't laugh at Vaidehi. You don't make fun of it, or point out mistakes. People take this show very seriously. Follow it like any Grey's Anatomy fans or So You Think You Can Dance fans, they know the history of each character and what is going on and pay rapt attention to the screen. I think this weekend was a pivotal episode. Someone got framed for someone's death or something. Oh, and one girl's pregnant. That's about all I got. But I was highly entertained.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKJL09-5xVw&feature=related
At this point in the night though things got to be a bit much. I hadn't had a very good day, there was Indian/French bad television blaring and my family conversing about it in Wolof and I was already full to bursting when they told me I'd missed the best part of the stew, and pushed a huuuuuge chunk of fat over to my side of the dish. I nibbled what meat there was off the corner. That wouldn't do. Everyone else was sucking on the marrow bones that I had foolishly, politely, refused. Silly me. More for them. It's not so much that it's a huge chunk of fat- it's that it's a huge chunk of fat that I can't chew. I tried biting off pieces small enough to swallow whole, which worked a few times but in the end my brain caught up with me and in one moment of "oh my god I'm eating a huge chunk of fat" I did gag a little. Not noticably so, and so excusing myself to get some water I did the classic American Student In a Strange Environment thing to do- spit the rest of the fat in my hand and hid it in a corner of the sink. I am ashamed. Truly ashamed. But on such a rollercoaster day, enough is enough. It's bad timing, really. I was so exhausted intellectually, physically, emotionally I just went to bed, right then and there.
I love Sundays. Did I mention I love Sundays? Sundays are my favorite days of the week, from now on. Every day I get up at 7am, for a cold-shower-hot-rinse. Sundays everyone sleeps until 11, when it's so hot I appreciate the cold shower. We eat breakfast slowly, clean up even more slowly, and do any work that might need to be done (counting fatayas is a great way to practice elementary French- we had deux-cent-soixante-douze small ones and quartre-vingt-dix-sept large ones) before making lunch. Mama Binta told me that every Sunday I'm not out with friends, she'll teach me how to make a different Senegalais dish. This one was called "Yassa"- if you want to taste some of what I'm tasting, pay attention:
YASSA
Ingredients-
Onions (lots of onions, always onions, onions in everything, more onions than meat) cut in big rings
La Viande- meat (beef, with the marrow bones left in, of course, and don't you dare trim the fat) cut in thin, long strips
Les Piments- hot peppers, just one or two, leave them whole just to add a little flavor
Garlic, lemon juice, green pepper, "Maggi" (which is a cube of spices, I'm not sure which kinds are included, it's just a generic serving of spices), a little vinegar, some mustard, some black pepper, dried hot pepper: you mix all of these together with "le mortier et pilon" (huge morter and pestle) to make a sort of paste that you rub on the onions, meat and peppers, add lemon juice and vinegar, like a marinate/spice rub/paste.
Grill the meat separately, and when the meat's cooked, put it in a pot with some oil and water (1 part oil 2 parts water) to simmer, to make it more tender. When the meat's nice and tender, put the onions and peppers into the pot, cover and let cook for about 15 minutes? until the onions are all cooked.
Serve over short-grain white rice. If you want a more authentic feel, serve around 3 or 4 pm in a huge dish and eat with your right hand. If you want to feel like me, be sure to spill half the rice on your lap, table, and floor, squeezing the rice into balls that look perfect in your hand, but fall apart instantly on the trip from hand-to-mouth.
Another reason I love Sundays. After lunch is nap time. Une petite sieste, wake up at 5:30 and go either to the beach or if it's too cold (and I guess 70 degrees is freezing here) go visiting family. I walked with Mama Binta to the Baobab neighborhood to meet her mother. She then told me to stay there so I sat awkwardly watching dubbed Extreme Home Makeover with various family members who were coming and going including that poor girl who is still terrified of the fact that my hair's too big. I forgot to bring my cell phone. I have no idea how long I sat there. Someone, we'll call him an uncle, tried to speak English with me for a while but we ran out of common vocabulary in English and Wolof and he finally called Mama Binta to ask when she was coming to get me. (I know this because by this time it was well past dark and the family was starting to mutter to each other and I did hear the words "toubab" and "Binta" and "fataya" and considering i was the only "toubab" (white girl) there and there was still no sign of "Binta" anywhere I think it's safe to assume. Mama Binta showed up and after a bit of chitchat we took a taxi home to catch the next episode of Vaidehi before dinner.
Another reason I love Sundays. Mama Binta explained to me that since we eat huge fatty dinners (no kidding) pendant/during the whole week, Sunday dinner is just a little porridge. It's like oatmeal, but made out of something similar to barley. You eat it with sweetened milk/cream and yogurt. This is my first meal that I could actually finish. I love Sundays. Did I mention I love Sundays? I love Sundays.
Classes start today, at four. We met from 9-11 to meet all the teachers, and now I don't have class for another three hours. This English break has been nice, but I've been typing for almost two hours. I'll see you all later.
Friday, January 22, 2010
On dit...
THE LEFT HAND
(also titled: Pooping Abroad)
No one uses toilet paper in Senegal: that was the first piece of advice I was given. Emilie, in the wonderful care package she sent me over with, gave me a roll, explaining that it is possible to buy it here, but no one does.
This is absolutely true. My family has a small roll, probably left over from the last student here. I carry my own in my backpack to and from school. Instead of paper, in the bathrooms here you find a bucket of water. One step away from a bidet, you supposedly use your left hand to wash yourself. Then I guess you shake your hand dry, because I have yet to see a hand towel.
You do not wash with your right hand because that is the hand you use to eat with.
I don't know about anyone else, but I am always just a little shy using other peoples' bathrooms in the US, when I know how they work and what is expected of me. When some toilets flush and some don't, some have seats and some don't (and the seat is always wet from the washing water), it can get positively terrifying at first. It can also be a bit disconcerting to look up from the toilet to see a showerhead and realize that here, a bathroom is a showerstall with a toilet in it. You get over it pretty quick, though. You have to- if you stay hydrated you get over the toilet thing. Cold showers every morning is another thing entirely.
On a related note, it was almost exactly a week before I got sick. Well, not really ill or anything, but I forgot that vegetables are, generally, washed in tap water. We knew this would happen. At least it's the weekend, so I can sleep in tomorrow.
The left hand has another job. When you say goodbye to someone, you shake left hands, to indicate that you will see them again soon.
THE RIGHT HAND
(also titled: You Still Can't Play With Your Food)
My family is trying to make me fat. Really- I'm not exaggerating. Not only do I live with a cook, but I have heard multiple times that their goal is for me to gain wait. Which I'm just fine with, except I'm not used to HUGE lunches and dinners of hot food all the time.
We eat mostly fish, in various forms, or beef- on top of salad. Dinner is served on one large platter, and we sit around it in the living room and reach in to eat. Mama Binta and Raissa and I eat separately from Papa Anicet. I don't know if Pascal eats with us or with his father- he's been sick these last few days so I have yet to see him eat dinner. I help bring in the water and cups and dishes and bread (always a baguette with every meal), and I also bring in silverwear, which no one uses but always offers. You eat with your right hand, breaking apart pieces of meat with your fingers, using bread to soak up the almost-too-salty sauce. There are onions in everything. If it's a rice dish you scoop up some rice and sort of squeeze it into a ball, using the edge of the platter. If there's something on the other side of the plate that you want to eat, you ask and whoever's sitting closest will put a piece in front of you. You eat from the food nearest you. They told me that people don't speak at meals, to respect the food. I wish that were the case simply because it's hard enough understanding mumbled french when it's not spoken through a mouthful of bread.
You do not eat with your left hand because that is the hand you use to wash with.
It is acceptable and recommended to lick your hand after you're done eating, so that you won't leave bits of food in the bucket of water that's passed around after a meal to wash with.
Food is the thing that is shared the most here. Not jus tat mealtimes, either. At least once a day my little brother will walk up to me with the phrase "tu veux?" and in his hand will be a mug with some yogurt, or a hard candy, or a piece of bread. The hard candy I took, and held awkwardly, used to accepting what someone gives me. I took it assuming he had more, and wanted to offer me a piece. No, that was the only piece of candy, I realized, and had to catch him as he started to walk away, explaining that no, it was for him. "tu es sure?" yes, I'm sure I don't want your piece of candy. "Tu es sure?" yes, of course, you should eat it. Only after he had offered his one piece of blue candy to everyone in the house and made sure they didn't want it, did he pop it in his mouth and run off to play.
Today at lunch we ordered fast food, but I wasn't feeling well enough to even contemplate eating the huge portion of chicken and fries that was given to me. I left the table, but Awa followed me and asked if I wanted to take my lunch home. I tried to explain that if I didn't want it now, I wouldn't want it on the long walk home. She just looked at me, then said, "but you don't want to share it with your family?" Oh. of course. And of course I want to, it just never occurred before.
I'm sitting outside. There's a mosquito buzzing around my keyboard. It's very distracting. I want to keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn't bite me. ........Lost it. Oh well.
(also titled: Pooping Abroad)
No one uses toilet paper in Senegal: that was the first piece of advice I was given. Emilie, in the wonderful care package she sent me over with, gave me a roll, explaining that it is possible to buy it here, but no one does.
This is absolutely true. My family has a small roll, probably left over from the last student here. I carry my own in my backpack to and from school. Instead of paper, in the bathrooms here you find a bucket of water. One step away from a bidet, you supposedly use your left hand to wash yourself. Then I guess you shake your hand dry, because I have yet to see a hand towel.
You do not wash with your right hand because that is the hand you use to eat with.
I don't know about anyone else, but I am always just a little shy using other peoples' bathrooms in the US, when I know how they work and what is expected of me. When some toilets flush and some don't, some have seats and some don't (and the seat is always wet from the washing water), it can get positively terrifying at first. It can also be a bit disconcerting to look up from the toilet to see a showerhead and realize that here, a bathroom is a showerstall with a toilet in it. You get over it pretty quick, though. You have to- if you stay hydrated you get over the toilet thing. Cold showers every morning is another thing entirely.
On a related note, it was almost exactly a week before I got sick. Well, not really ill or anything, but I forgot that vegetables are, generally, washed in tap water. We knew this would happen. At least it's the weekend, so I can sleep in tomorrow.
The left hand has another job. When you say goodbye to someone, you shake left hands, to indicate that you will see them again soon.
THE RIGHT HAND
(also titled: You Still Can't Play With Your Food)
My family is trying to make me fat. Really- I'm not exaggerating. Not only do I live with a cook, but I have heard multiple times that their goal is for me to gain wait. Which I'm just fine with, except I'm not used to HUGE lunches and dinners of hot food all the time.
We eat mostly fish, in various forms, or beef- on top of salad. Dinner is served on one large platter, and we sit around it in the living room and reach in to eat. Mama Binta and Raissa and I eat separately from Papa Anicet. I don't know if Pascal eats with us or with his father- he's been sick these last few days so I have yet to see him eat dinner. I help bring in the water and cups and dishes and bread (always a baguette with every meal), and I also bring in silverwear, which no one uses but always offers. You eat with your right hand, breaking apart pieces of meat with your fingers, using bread to soak up the almost-too-salty sauce. There are onions in everything. If it's a rice dish you scoop up some rice and sort of squeeze it into a ball, using the edge of the platter. If there's something on the other side of the plate that you want to eat, you ask and whoever's sitting closest will put a piece in front of you. You eat from the food nearest you. They told me that people don't speak at meals, to respect the food. I wish that were the case simply because it's hard enough understanding mumbled french when it's not spoken through a mouthful of bread.
You do not eat with your left hand because that is the hand you use to wash with.
It is acceptable and recommended to lick your hand after you're done eating, so that you won't leave bits of food in the bucket of water that's passed around after a meal to wash with.
Food is the thing that is shared the most here. Not jus tat mealtimes, either. At least once a day my little brother will walk up to me with the phrase "tu veux?" and in his hand will be a mug with some yogurt, or a hard candy, or a piece of bread. The hard candy I took, and held awkwardly, used to accepting what someone gives me. I took it assuming he had more, and wanted to offer me a piece. No, that was the only piece of candy, I realized, and had to catch him as he started to walk away, explaining that no, it was for him. "tu es sure?" yes, I'm sure I don't want your piece of candy. "Tu es sure?" yes, of course, you should eat it. Only after he had offered his one piece of blue candy to everyone in the house and made sure they didn't want it, did he pop it in his mouth and run off to play.
Today at lunch we ordered fast food, but I wasn't feeling well enough to even contemplate eating the huge portion of chicken and fries that was given to me. I left the table, but Awa followed me and asked if I wanted to take my lunch home. I tried to explain that if I didn't want it now, I wouldn't want it on the long walk home. She just looked at me, then said, "but you don't want to share it with your family?" Oh. of course. And of course I want to, it just never occurred before.
I'm sitting outside. There's a mosquito buzzing around my keyboard. It's very distracting. I want to keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn't bite me. ........Lost it. Oh well.
Clarification
I would like to make sure, at this point, that you all understand the tone of this blog and of my experiences here. I am studying abroad in a developing country, homestaying in a place very different to anything I am used to. There is no bias except my own personal standpoint; by that I mean that I try to describe what I see and what I feel as two different things. of course, it is impossible to be completely objective. But when I say that the toilet has no seat, you must also understand that it is washed every night. And when I tell you all how giving and hospitable a country this is, you must also know how dangerous it is to go out at night alone. I am trying to say, then, that even though it is naïve and even useless to compare this country, these people, and this way of life to those in the United States, it is all I have, and comparisons are often the easiest way to communicate. But there is no way I could hope to do it justice; the difference is too great and the level of not-knowing that I have yet to fully realize is too immense.
And I have no doubt there will come a time when the "honeymoon is over" and I stop being impressed and start getting fed up with it all. You'll hear about that when it happens. But trust me- you'll know when that happens. And it hasn't happened yet.
And I have no doubt there will come a time when the "honeymoon is over" and I stop being impressed and start getting fed up with it all. You'll hear about that when it happens. But trust me- you'll know when that happens. And it hasn't happened yet.
Pursuing it with eager feet, until it joins some larger way....
We only stayed in the hotel for one night. After that we were introduced to our host families, getting dropped off one by one in our respective neighborhoods. It was positively nerve-wracking seeing, one by one, each student disappear into a house with Adji and Awa, and since most of the houses had courtyards or entryways, we never got to see the families or the inside of the houses. I was one of the last ones to get dropped off.
To get to my house, you first drive down the main road through the town, then turn onto what looks like an alleyway. It looks like an alley because the pavement is full of potholes filled with sand, and there’s only room for one car at a time. As you drive further, though, you realize that it’s too twisty and roundabout to be just an alley, and if you look hard there are sidewalks on either side, which is where all the cars are parked, stalls are set up, not to mention huge piles of sand in the middle of the sidewalk- it’s much easier to walk in the middle of the roads, if you can dodge the taxis.
Alors. Then you go through this maze of small streets and eventually they lead you to a series of what you’re sure are alleys. No car could possibly fit down these passageways (though many mopeds speed through), and they’re lined with front doors in painted walls, perhaps with a tiled patio in front. Halfway down a certain alley- that’s my house. Adji and Awa walked me to the door, and knocked- the dented metal door that has no doorknob, but if you can fit your fingers into the top corner and pry it open, that works just as well- and i found myself face to face with a beaming Mama Binta. She ushered us inside (the front yard is about a foot and a half long, just big enough for a laundry line and welcome mat) and the three women spoke rapidly in Wolof for what seemed like an hour before they left with bags of steaming fatayas to drop off the next student. And there I was, in my new home, with my new family, and I could not for the life of me form a single word or thought.
I’m lucky to be staying with Mama Binta- everyone says so. The staff here at WARC, the neighbors who come over to chat, my friends and their host families, and I was the first to realize it. She knows exactly how to welcome a jetlagged, confused American into her home. The very first thing was to show me where I would be staying- I share a bedroom with Raïssa, my host sister, so the first order of business was to choose a bed and unpack my clothes into the top compartment of the wardrobe. Once I wandered out of the room again, I was whisked away on a tour of the house and family. Papa Anicet was watching “le match de foot” on the tv in the living room, still decorated from Christmas with paper garlands and a faded plastic christmas tree. A curtained doorway leads to the bedroom where Mama Binta, Papa Anicet, and my 8-year-old brother Pascal sleep. Next is my and Raïssa’s bedroom, across from the kitchen, and the bathroom is on the back of the house and I am always reminding myself that even though it is just eight steps from the back door to the bathroom, il faut toujours, always always, wear flipflops in the back yard, le jardin. (I just found out yesterday that the huge tree shading the whole place is a mango tree).
In the back yard there is always activity. This is where Mama Binta has her fataya business. There are long tables where a boy (I forget his name, and he mumbles so that I hardly know if or when he’s talking at all) rolls out dough and cuts it into squares. There it’s filled with a mixture of spices, onions and meat, pinched into triangular pockets, and deep-fried. There are baskets and baskets of them. La bonne (the maid) sweeps the floor several times a day, and another girl comes every Tuesday to do the laundry. I met them all but forgot the names. Pascal and Raïssa got home from school soon after that- Pascal is eight and energetic and acts like any eight-year-old brother I imagine would. Raïssa is seventeen and acts like any other teenager I imagine would. They’re both so nice- everyone in my family is so incredibly welcoming I felt at home right away.
It is both impossible and the easiest thing in the world, living here. Or, getting used to living here. There are daily victories (this morning I remembered to put on my sandals on the way to the bathroom) and daily mistakes (I tried to sleep in. Mama woke me up declaring it was time I showered), and I’m learning things constantly. (Soap comes in a bag, as a powder, in no way recognizable as soap). I feel like a barbarian, a messy child, for so many reasons:
- Up until now, I was not used to showering every single morning, let alone twice a day.
- I can’t eat with my hand without spilling everything
- I go barefoot outside the house
- My feet are constantly dirty. How can my family keep their feet so clean?
- When faced with a whole cooked fish last night at dinner, I just sort of stared at it, contemplating what to do. Dissection is not an option.
- I still forget to say hi to everyone. Several times I’ve tried to buy cell phone credit or water without the prerequisite small talk. It doesn’t really work.
So so so many things to keep in mind- like what language to speak when I wake up in the morning. Or to look six ways when crossing the street on the half-hour walk to school and back. Or to put on bug spray and sunscreen, take my malaria medication, bring toilet paper with me to the bathroom, Don’t give money to kids, you wouldn’t know how much to give anyway. Turn left at the giant Baobab tree. Right at the colored tires. My cell phone number is a new one. Wash underwear in the shower, separate from other clothes. Don’t eat with your left hand.
Yesterday when I got home Mama Binta had me help her make fatayas. I’d asked Papa Anicet where she sells them, and it turns out she’s got something close to a catering business, where people come pick up baskets of food from her door and take them to schools for lunch, businesses for meetings, or parties. There are mountains of food in various stages of preparation, and last night must have been a huge order. Her daughter in law, my sister-in-law, was making kebabs. I was filling dough and folding the fatayas, with the mumbling boy. Mama Binta was making egg rolls (“Nemm”) of all things. She had been up since seven working, and didn’t finish until at least nine in the evening, when she switched to cooking dinner. I learned that the dough is flour, water, salt, and oil. The filling is ground beef, chopped onions (more onions than beef), green onion, pepper, and salt. Mountains of food. She had pain au chocolat from the little market, three loaves, that she had everyone eating, including the maid who was washing dishes and mixing the fillings.
My sister-in-law had three kids- a son who was a little younger than Pascal, a toddler-daughter, and a baby girl tied in a cloth sling on her back. The girl would not stop staring at me. I told her “bonjour!”, and despite everyone’s coaxing, she buried her head in her mother’s skirt and wouldn’t answer me. I thought nothing of it, but when I left the room I heard roars of laughter. Greetings are so important here, and I always forget that. It turns out this little girl was asking her mother to tell me hello for her, so she would be off the hook, so to speak- she was obligated to answer my greeting, even at the age of two. Later, we were playing, and I thought we were getting along quite well. Until one of my braids slipped over my shoulder, and her eyes got huge. She pointed. I thought this was an invitation to play, and my cousins at home always giggled when I tickled them with the tips of my braids. When I tried this, however, she shrieked in fear and started crying. Perhaps she didn’t realize it was my hair? I took off my bandana. That only made it worse, and she ran to her mother, sobbing. I followed slowly, laughing, trying to explain that it was my hair that scared her so much as I tucked my braids back under the bandana where no one could see them. I wanted to cry myself. I never imagined I could make a child so scared, I must look like an alien to her! Mama Binta told the girl to give me a kiss to make up for being so rude and crying. She slowly walked up and kissed me on the cheek. I wanted to scoop her up in my arms and comfort her, but instead I took the baby that was being handed to me, cheering up a little at the fearless infant. The baby doesn’t know yet that I look strange.
I’m putting the hair away now, but it’ll still be there. Waiting.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Orientation
(I feel like I should update every chance I get, since those chances will get less and less frequent this week especially)
It feels like a week since I was in Minneapolis. I’ve had my first day of orientation with Waly, Ady and Awa, and it was a whirlwind. We learned how to dance, how to eat, how to drink tea, how to wear a pagne, and the individual jobs of the left vs. the right hand. We walked to the beach, then back through a fishing village, crowded with children chanting “toubab toubab toubab” and women in bright skirts and horses and carts and fancy cars and piles of rotting fish half buried in the sand between the brightly painted boats and the whole thing stinks of salt and fish and rotting flesh and horse manure and you hear people singing and shouting and I can’t tell if the men are hissing at the horses or at us and I don’t know if it’s a gesture of approval or of disapproval. I saw an old man in a bright lime green shirt sitting on a chair, a younger man on the ground polishing his nails with a rag. Kids decorate every wall with drawings, scribbles, whole scenes that go on for blocks at a time. I wink at them when they stare at me- those that aren’t asking for money. Families live in houses that look like ruins, until you’re told they’re not finished yet. As soon as they can afford the next layer of bricks, they’ll continue construction. There are stands that sell batteries and cell phones and bright green lettuce and very dusty pairs of shoes. There’s a man with dreds dressed in rags, but the rags look like some sort of costume instead, they’re just perfectly sewn strips of fabric.
I’ve started to feel comfortable understanding conversations and answering them in french. I’ve started to learn how to walk in sand so that it doesn’t fly up in my face, and so that I can try and avoid so much piling into the toe of my sandal. It doesn’t work, of course, but I’m making progress.
And I learned just how strong you can make green Chinese tea with mint. And how difficult it is to form a rice ball with just your right hand, well enough that it reaches your mouth without making a mess. And tomorrow we’re getting cell phones and changing currency and I’m so exhausted right now I think I’ll just go to sleep.
And me just a stranger, a long way from home...
I am not in Kansas anymore. Stepping off the plane, I winced, waiting for the cold that never hit. 5:45 a.m. was dark and breezy, and the first thing I noticed was...nothing. No cold, no hot. When the wind came I felt it, and with it smelt salt and brine, right off the ocean. There are eighteen of us now, staying at the hotel. Kaela, Tianna, Kelsey and I went for a walk around 9:30. I’ve never felt like such an intruder. “Minority” doesn’t even begin to cover it. I couldn’t stare at anyone, because it was their job to stare at me. There are brightly colored flowers and piles of cinderblocks. Painted iron gates, palm trees with coconuts growing by the streets, and children with tattered t-shirts and beat up buckets, and outstretched hands. A mule and cart wander by the car-wash where a man polishes a shiny silver sports car. The mule looks to be thinner than its own harness. Everyone is staring. My feet are dry and filthy, and my shoes will always be filled with sand. That’s okay. It’s warm- no, hot- and not likely to rain- at all. In an hour someone will come with a bus to take us to our first day of orientation. I figured out where the rooster is, that crows every ten minutes or so. My bathroom at the hotel has a shower and pink toilet paper and a wardrobe with two doors with one key each. Sound carries in this building, so well you can’t tell where the chattering voices and laughter are coming from. Which room, I mean- the voices are the other students in my program, undoubtedly- they’re the only ones I’ve heard yet speak above a mumble. I feel loud and white and very very young, in a place that is so beautiful and yet interesting in a way that makes me feel overpriveleged and pretentious just for finding it so picturesque. (I mean, the pictures in National Geographic are gorgeous, but who would really want to be a featured story?)I feel like I walked into National Geographic. I feel like I’m dreaming, like this can’t be real. I can’t remember yesterday, it seems so long ago, and yet I can’t imagine tomorrow because I have no idea what even an hour from now will be like. This is as close as I have come to being in the moment, but even the present moment is unreal.
I don’t have a watch. We’re not changing money until tomorrow, which is when I can buy a phone. I don’t know how I will wake up tomorrow, or at what time. We were given a packet of information with a schedule for orientation. I won’t write so much or so often, perhaps, when I have other things to do, but for now the focus is on staying relaxed yet awake. There are songbirds singing outside, and they sound perfectly normal. Busy highway sounds too, and my loud classmates (especially Kaela, whose voice I can always recognize, from my french class last semester) who wouldn’t be loud for the fact that the echoey hallways here blend so well with our sleep-deprived nervous excitement. There’s safety in numbers, and we’re all anxious to band together. I feel gaudy, and loud even when I don’t speak. I don’t know if it’s more rude to smile or look away. I don’t make eye contact, because I couldn’t read anyone’s expression here if I tried.
The hotel has WiFi. It’s shaky, but when it works it’s fast. To stay awake earlier, I tried going on facebook, to let people know I had landed and everything was okay. Angela, Maddy, and Mark all started talking to me. Chatting, I mean. I was so taken aback I didn’t know what to do. For some reason the scariest thing about this place was how easy it was to slip back into “home”. I’m in a different country, I shouldn’t be able to contact my friends so easily. Everything needs to change, right? In a place so different there’s no room for the familiar. Not today, anyway. So why am I writing on a blog.
I “should” go get to know my new friends and comerades. I “should” go downstairs and be cheerful and sociable. Or, I “should” put away the computer and read a book.
I “need” to lie down on my bed. I “need” to process my thoughts right now. I “need” to take things slowly, with regards to getting to know these people. I “need” to write out what’s going through my head, so that I can make some sense of it.
It isn’t the jetlag, it’s the culture shock. And I haven’t even gotten any “culture” yet. I’m excited, in a very tired way, and very very intimidated. We all are, but my way of showing it is to be shy, not loud. This place is beautiful, but to say so frames it- places me as the viewer. Puts up a third wall. There’s no way I could ever blend in here, but no way am I going to be an audience to my surroundings.
Of course, saying that, I already am. Which I am and am not okay with.
Skilna∂artàra
Sunday, January 17, 2010
I’m not the kind of person to freak out, but if I were, that would have been the Thursday before I left. More specifically, when I was at work thinking of all the things I needed to do and wanted to do before leaving, but couldn’t yet. The entire day was “lemmego lemmego lemmeGO!” Getting home to pack was probably the most excruciatingly long car ride I’ve ever gone through. Which is why I’m so grateful to Disa for coming over to keep me company and distract me from exploding in six different directions while trying to pack.
There’s a song I know, learned just over a year ago from a good friend, that Disa and I sing. It’s pretty simple, the words are:
Who can sail without the wind?
Who can row without oars?
Who can part from a friend beloved, without shedding tears?
I can sail without the wind,
I can row without oars,
Yet not part from a friend beloved without shedding tears.
There are translations into all sorts of different languages, but our favorite is the Icelandic- the last line (“without shedding tears”) is “kvatt han àn skilna∂artàra”, the last word meaning “tears of parting”. There’s a word, in Icelandic, for the tears you shed when you say goodbye to someone. Which, I think, is one of the most beautiful distinctions you could make, in a word. It’s a different kind of crying than, say, being hurt or sad or angry. The “tears of parting” deserve their own word because they’re separate from all the others. It’s a different thing.
I’m not the kind of person to cry, but if I were, that would have been Friday or Saturday night, after everyone left. More specifically, after I left everyone. When it all sank in. The entire day was trying to see my friends in Minneapolis, trying to fit in some last quality time without being rushed or too stressed out. It was easy saying goodbye to people from Mount Horeb- I’m used to not seeing them for months at a time. Even some of my closest friends I’m used to saying goodbye to- but it’s always been me that stays put. Minneapolis was harder. Even if I don’t see people that often, they’re always around, on campus, a short walk or bus ride away. And, of course, there’s always the all-consuming internet.
My family and my Minneapolis-family gave me a wonderful sendoff, though- Mom and Dad and Eliza and Bob and Julie and Lolo and Smack and Linda and Ray and Sophie, and we made pizzas and spoke French and listened to the kids’ band, and sang and played.... it was the perfect way to spend my last night here. (Especially after spending all day with my sister at the Mall of America- just in case I wasn’t ready to escape the grand old U.S. of A., here’s a double shot of Everything That’s Wrong With Our Modern Society to push me onto that plane) There was so much going on it was a wonderful distraction, which is good because I started to get that panicked, having-second-thoughts feeling that of course I’d never act on but is simply annoying and hard to ignore. By the time I went to bed I was so tired I was asleep before the pit in my stomach could get too ominous.
It’s cold here in the airport. It’s 2:30 pm, in Dulles International Terminal, and I’ve been here for about three hours. The plane leaves in another three hours. It’s miserable outside and I’m right next to the big windows. My necklace is cold against my skin- it keeps falling out of my sweatshirt now that I put it on a longer, more sturdy leather cord. I miss my purple scarf. Not that I could bring it along- I doubt it’ll be this chilly where I’m headed, and it certainly won’t be this rainy. Since this morning (which started at 3a.m.) I’ve seen snow, frost, fog, and rain- again, the perfect “this is why you’re going” sendoff. The other girls are on their cell phones. By “other girls”, that is to say, there are four of us that met up in Minneapolis on the 6 o’clock flight to Chicago, to here. There are other people, students, here waiting for the plane but I’m not sure if those groups are MSID or not. The four of us have been taking turns watching the luggage and going off to find food, shampoo, internet (No luck with the internet, though.) We’ve been sharing packing stories, what-did-you-bring, how-much-did-you-read, have-you-started-taking-your-malaria-pills, etc. It’s nice we’re all the same amount of prepared, it seems, and if one of us forgot something (computer adapters, bug spray, chocolate) someone else has got it.
I feel better, being with three friends, already. I don’t remember whose name belongs to whom, but it makes me realize we’ll be fine.
As time draws near my dearest dear, when you and I must part
How little do you know of the grief and woe in my poor aching heart
Tis but I suffer for your sake, you are my love so dear
I wish that I was gone with you, or you were staying here
I wish my breast was made of glass, wherein you might behold
For there your name lies wrote my dear, in letters made of gold
In letters made of gold my love, believe me when I say
You are the only one for me until my dying day
The blackest crow that ever flew would surely turn to white
If ever I prove false to you bright day will turn to night
Bright day will turn to night, my love, the elements will mourn
If ever I prove false to you, the seas will rage and burn...
Friday, January 15, 2010
Here we go...
Right. I'm taking a break from crazy packing mode to update, just to get into the habit. I'm all done with immunizations, starting malaria pills tonight, driving up to Minneapolis today, leaving on a plane at 6am on Sunday.
This is really happening.
I spent Wednesday meeting with friends. Saw James and Hannah in the morning, and then had lunch with Emilie. She works at the library downtown and is friends with practically everyone at WARC. She gave me some wonderful advice, and a care package (travel shampoo, hand sanitizer, chocolate, and toilet paper- I appreciate that tip most of all!) and letters for all the staff. Sandra had even more good advice, not to mention pages of "in case I forget to mention it" tips and even some phrases in Wolof that she said would be especially helpful. And presents for friends over there.
It was so great talking to Emilie and Sandra both- not only did it help me get a feel for what I need to know, and how I could approach this trip, but each of them told me about things I'd never think to ask. I wish I could come up with an example now, but my brain's still in packing mode.
Oh! And Disa came over last night. We had fun- it turns out you can annoy friends long-distance via Skype, and we were both giddy- her from lack of sleep, and me from stress, so we had a grand old time. (Apologies to Mark and Max, of course) She helped me pack, too. So, thanks Disa :).
I get really weird about saying goodbye to everyone. I'm sorry if I haven't called or emailed or met you for coffee. Out of all my friends from home, I've seen three this break. But for me, it feels like it's just better to leave. "See you later" sums it up. Because I will see you later. So there's no need to make a fuss.
Hopefully I'll get better at this whole blogging thing. I realize that right now it's not very interesting. I could give you a packing list, I suppose, but at this point that's all that's on my mind. And a shower. *sigh*. Here I go to take one last long shower at home before I go- a very important part of my pre-departure routine for any trip.
Demain on est parti dans le pays des étrangers....
kvatt han àn skilna∂artàra
This is really happening.
I spent Wednesday meeting with friends. Saw James and Hannah in the morning, and then had lunch with Emilie. She works at the library downtown and is friends with practically everyone at WARC. She gave me some wonderful advice, and a care package (travel shampoo, hand sanitizer, chocolate, and toilet paper- I appreciate that tip most of all!) and letters for all the staff. Sandra had even more good advice, not to mention pages of "in case I forget to mention it" tips and even some phrases in Wolof that she said would be especially helpful. And presents for friends over there.
It was so great talking to Emilie and Sandra both- not only did it help me get a feel for what I need to know, and how I could approach this trip, but each of them told me about things I'd never think to ask. I wish I could come up with an example now, but my brain's still in packing mode.
Oh! And Disa came over last night. We had fun- it turns out you can annoy friends long-distance via Skype, and we were both giddy- her from lack of sleep, and me from stress, so we had a grand old time. (Apologies to Mark and Max, of course) She helped me pack, too. So, thanks Disa :).
I get really weird about saying goodbye to everyone. I'm sorry if I haven't called or emailed or met you for coffee. Out of all my friends from home, I've seen three this break. But for me, it feels like it's just better to leave. "See you later" sums it up. Because I will see you later. So there's no need to make a fuss.
Hopefully I'll get better at this whole blogging thing. I realize that right now it's not very interesting. I could give you a packing list, I suppose, but at this point that's all that's on my mind. And a shower. *sigh*. Here I go to take one last long shower at home before I go- a very important part of my pre-departure routine for any trip.
Demain on est parti dans le pays des étrangers....
kvatt han àn skilna∂artàra
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