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.