So I forget if I ever wrote about this, but a few weeks ago I went to go pick up a package. See, small mail gets delivered to WARC (or at least to the local post office, where someone picks it up) but bigger packages just send a notice for you to head to the post office downtown to pick it up yourself.
So if you're me, depending on when this week someone's gone to the post office, suddenly you're handed a note saying "take this piece of paper to the post office downtown", and you realize that you might have gotten that paper three days ago when A) it arrived, just no one had picked it up yet or B) you had a break between classes, but now you have to wait till tomorrow.
And tomorrow after class at one you flag down a taxi and make sure they know where the "colis poste" is and tell them you won't pay them unless they take you exactly there since most will pretend they know where you're going and then ask directions halfway there. And it's 1500 CFA, no way are you getting a taxi for less. And you arrive at 1:10 and they're on lunch break. So you sit there for a few hours maybe until they're off break. Then you walk up to window/guichet A and hand them your note, and they ask for your ID, which you show, and they give you a form and say go through door 1, turn right, and you realize when you're there that they meant left because there's nowhere right to go, and you do and another man sends you through door number 2 and aroudn the corner to a room where a bunch of people are clustered around a computer playing trivia online, and one of them waves you over to a man asleep at his desk. You try to nicely wake him up, he waves you over to the man standing right behind you this whole time who goes through door number 3 to where all the packages are. (which by the way is just a doorway away from the back of guichet A and B, you can see straight through to where you just were, it was a roundabout way of getting to the back room, where the man at the window could have slid with his swivel chair (assuming the swivel works) with the forms himself and saved everyone else the instructions and stamps and running about. But we forget this is Senegal.) And then they take your form and note and add a stamp to each, and cut open your package to make sure there's nothing weird inside, and then tape it back and send you, sans package, back through door 3 to room 2 where a man gives you another form and stamps it and sends you back to the first room and the first window A.
The man at window A asks for your ID again and all three forms and the one note and stamps them all or signs them and sends you two feet over to window B. There is no one at window B. So the man from guichet A goes over to guichet B and takes your 1300 CFA (it's an extra 300 since you picked it up 3 days late since whoever went and picked up the note from the local, not downtown, post office decided to go on wednesday and not monday) and then sens you over to guichet A where he takes the two stamped reciepts he gave you from guichet B, and hands you your package. And then you flag down another taxi and pay 1500 CFA to get back to school.
Hassle set aside, I do love getting packages. Which is why today, I was excited that Awa handed me a pink slip, indicating that I have one waiting! Very exciting.
But she said that it's Friday and post offices close at three. And I'm leaving on Saturday for spring break and not getting back until Friday night and then we're leaving on Monday morning at 7 for our internships for six weeks so I really won't have any other time but TODAY to get my package. And I have a wolof test at 11. So I take the Wolof test as soon as I can (we each go in for a 10 minute interview) and then I go to the local post office to exchange my pink slip for my blue note which is the one I have to take downtown to the colis postale. And then I hurry with Elissa/Elysa/Alissa (who also needs to pick up a package) over to order burgers for us and Dylan who meets us there after his interview since he's got a package too. As soon as we're done eating Kelsey's arrived, having just finished her interview, and the four of us share a cab downtown, arriving maybe at 1:30 which is awesome. We rush into the post office only to hear that they're closed for lunch. Turns out they open again at 3, until 4:30. Awa was wrong, or we misunderstood. Either is possible. Dylan heads back to WARC to get some work done.
A/E/lyssa and Kelsey and I try to take a walk around but there isn't much to see in this part of town so we end up at a tiny boutique sitting outside eating snacks and charming the locals with our hilariously small grasp of Wolof. After half an hour we head back and just sit for an hour in the shade inside the post office and chat and nearly fall asleep. As soon as the guichets open I lead the three of us over to window A since I've done this before I let the other two go first. They disappear behind door 1, and I hand the man at window A my blue note, ready to make the whole trip again. Instead, he explains to me that this note just signifies the tracking number for the package I already got, it's the delayed paperwork in other words.
oh.
So I sit down and wait for the other two to make their way through windows and doors and forms and stamps and reciepts and identification. And then Kelsey goes on to another post office where she can pick up her other package, and A/E/lyssa and I share a taxi back, where she opens up the sickeningly sweet and annoyingly adorable birthday care package from the sap that in my head I am calling Some Guy Named Joe. But she shares some chocolate with me so I have to refrain from being angry. Besides, she's happy, and I can't really be all grumpy when she's so honestly ecstatic. Even though my head is pounding.
Besides, I'm going dancing tonight. Last chance before I leave. I've got ibuprofen at home. It's all good.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Spring break!
Okay, so my brain is kind of freaking out right now. This is the last week of classes, and then next week is Spring Break, and then I leave for my internships. So I'm leaving Dakar to start all over again with a new host family in a new town for another six weeks, but my brain right now doesn't realize that, and can't figure out why, if I'm leaving Dakar, I'm not going home. I keep thinking about Minneapolis, more than I should be, more than I have been, and it's because my brain makes the leap from "leaving here" to "arriving there". And I don't want to leave my family here. Especially the last few days, we've been having such a good time, I really have been getting weepy and nostalgic about leaving them. And starting all over again.
So where will Johanna be?
I'll be leaving Saturday morning for St.Louis (Northern Senegal) for three days, then in a Bird Park for a few days, then in the desert for a day, 'cause I want to ride a camel. And see... more sand. I'll be with roughly ten other people too, so it's not like I'm going alone. And then home on Friday, the weekend's with my family, then Monday or Tuesday I'll be brought to Toubacouta for the next six weeks. And although it's fairly certain that I'll be able to get to a cyber cafe or a wireless signal at some point, I have no idea when or how often. So.
Dunno how often I'll be posting, in other words.
But yeah, that's the deal.
So where will Johanna be?
I'll be leaving Saturday morning for St.Louis (Northern Senegal) for three days, then in a Bird Park for a few days, then in the desert for a day, 'cause I want to ride a camel. And see... more sand. I'll be with roughly ten other people too, so it's not like I'm going alone. And then home on Friday, the weekend's with my family, then Monday or Tuesday I'll be brought to Toubacouta for the next six weeks. And although it's fairly certain that I'll be able to get to a cyber cafe or a wireless signal at some point, I have no idea when or how often. So.
Dunno how often I'll be posting, in other words.
But yeah, that's the deal.
It Makes the World Go Round, Part 2: Cookie Culture
So you already know how hard it is to get small change, and how all you can ever use is small change. We've already covered that.
What I haven't talked about yet is the effect it's had on MSID students as a community of people with a common annoyance (it's not really a problem, that is). We all know how hard it is to get change, so it isn't at all out of place to hear someone say "I need to break a bill- who can I buy lunch for?" or, "All I've got is tens, can you cover me today?" I'll pay you back when I have change. That's how it is, every day. We all owe each other so much little change in things like taxi fares or lunch tabs or bottles of water or oranges. And it's not worth keeping track of. Sure, big things (ten bucks or more, let's say) we keep track of. But it's not worth it, and by now we're all so used to it that no one blinks at a request for change.
And as I mentioned before, this also results in us all buying more stuff than we need. Namely, food. Namely, cookies. Let me explain.
Very early on in our stay here, we realized that it's cheaper to buy cookies at the supermarket than it is to buy lunch at the restaurant here. And the supermarket is a lot more likely to give you change. And so for about a week a few of us just ate packaged cookies for lunch. That means that after a week we kept buying cookies, but didn't want to eat them. So we shared them, you know, as a gesture that we were learning about this culture of sharing. Or something. And now we're in the habit. Which means that at any given time someone will have just been to MyShop or the supermarché and will have a big shiny new stack of cookies, that will last all of a day because we just put them out on the table for whoever wants them.
We don't eat cookies for lunch anymore though. That was a bad plan to start with.
But I'm going to miss that small endearing detail of how we've come together as a group here. Sharing cookies that you bought just because you figured it was your turn to buy cookies since you hadn't in a few weeks and you'd been eating everyone else's cookies. Having that thought of "oh, I should get around to getting something for the group" but not worrying about if everyone gets some, they will next round from somebody else. Or realizing that even though so-and-so hasn't paid you back for the lunch you covered, it's about three dollars and next time you don't have change you can ask them, or anyone else around you.
I'm not sure if this is a Senegalese thing, or a American Students Studying in Senegal thing, but I really do appreciate it.
Little things like that, like walking into WARC and saying "good morning, how's the wireless working today?" and hearing the string of trilingual curses that follow. The rows of computers charging in the classroom during class so we can sit in the sun with our laptops after lunch. Or geeking out over fabric, and the outfits we walk by on the way home. It's weird, this being the last week of all of that before we split up and leave for various internships.
What I haven't talked about yet is the effect it's had on MSID students as a community of people with a common annoyance (it's not really a problem, that is). We all know how hard it is to get change, so it isn't at all out of place to hear someone say "I need to break a bill- who can I buy lunch for?" or, "All I've got is tens, can you cover me today?" I'll pay you back when I have change. That's how it is, every day. We all owe each other so much little change in things like taxi fares or lunch tabs or bottles of water or oranges. And it's not worth keeping track of. Sure, big things (ten bucks or more, let's say) we keep track of. But it's not worth it, and by now we're all so used to it that no one blinks at a request for change.
And as I mentioned before, this also results in us all buying more stuff than we need. Namely, food. Namely, cookies. Let me explain.
Very early on in our stay here, we realized that it's cheaper to buy cookies at the supermarket than it is to buy lunch at the restaurant here. And the supermarket is a lot more likely to give you change. And so for about a week a few of us just ate packaged cookies for lunch. That means that after a week we kept buying cookies, but didn't want to eat them. So we shared them, you know, as a gesture that we were learning about this culture of sharing. Or something. And now we're in the habit. Which means that at any given time someone will have just been to MyShop or the supermarché and will have a big shiny new stack of cookies, that will last all of a day because we just put them out on the table for whoever wants them.
We don't eat cookies for lunch anymore though. That was a bad plan to start with.
But I'm going to miss that small endearing detail of how we've come together as a group here. Sharing cookies that you bought just because you figured it was your turn to buy cookies since you hadn't in a few weeks and you'd been eating everyone else's cookies. Having that thought of "oh, I should get around to getting something for the group" but not worrying about if everyone gets some, they will next round from somebody else. Or realizing that even though so-and-so hasn't paid you back for the lunch you covered, it's about three dollars and next time you don't have change you can ask them, or anyone else around you.
I'm not sure if this is a Senegalese thing, or a American Students Studying in Senegal thing, but I really do appreciate it.
Little things like that, like walking into WARC and saying "good morning, how's the wireless working today?" and hearing the string of trilingual curses that follow. The rows of computers charging in the classroom during class so we can sit in the sun with our laptops after lunch. Or geeking out over fabric, and the outfits we walk by on the way home. It's weird, this being the last week of all of that before we split up and leave for various internships.
Barack u Bama
Just an interesting linguistic fact that struck me the other day- in French, the word for "guest" is the same as the word for "host". It's the same word.
I was not looking forward to the field trip for International Development class. In fact, I was loathing it. Stressing over it. I did NOT want to go. And normally I like field trips.
But all Professor Kane told us was that we were going to visit the Liberté 6 slums, to see how development didn't work. A bunch of white college students going on a field trip to see the "Barack" of people who had been kicked out of their homes so the land could be used for a hotel or airport or restaurant. Displaced people. And we were going to see just how bad they had it. Poor people, our teacher kept reminding us, and he always shouts, in English, to emphasize his point. It was embarassing. I'm not here to see poor people because they're poor. I don't want to be that American who looks and takes pictures and smiles at all the cute children and doesn't give money even though she could and should because isn't it all just so fascinating, how they make do with so little? And isn't it so sad, and even infuriating, all of the indignities they've had to go through because of the circumstances? I don't want to be that American student.
And I was. We all were. Fifteen students took an oh-so-colorful Car Rapide to the Barack of Liberté 6. We were met by a couple who showed us around, and the first thing they said was 'bienvenue". They thanked us for coming to visit, and for taking interest in their group. We got a tour of the polio vaccination clinic, the school and preschool, the old health post (closed down because they couldn't afford supplies or a doctor's salary), the whole neighborhood, really. And everywhere we saw "welcome" it was painted on the sides of buildings and spoken everywhere we went. The most welcome I felt, though, was when we visited the barack Imam. He joked with us and (helped by a translator or two) gave a whole speech about how America was going to help them, about how we were here as students now, but he hoped we could come back later to help out. He showed us the mosque and then prayed, we all did, but it wasn't uncomfortable. We simply held our hands palms up in front of us, bowed our heads, and listened to him (and the translators) say how he hoped we would become the next President of the United States, or marry a Senegalese man or woman, or do well in our studies, and above all be well and come back some day.
This was not a Muslim prayer, it was a human prayer. It was friendly and forgiving and I felt the sun soaking into my palms and I looked at the pack of children that of course had been following us the whole time, and I looked over the corrugated iron rooftops of the makeshift shacks at the shining new apartment complexes and I couldn't understand what the imam was doing or saying but he was still praying for me, one of those American students who came to see the slums, to see how poor people live here. And the professor kept saying at every stop, "can you imagine this? Can you imagine living in these conditions?" and he was saying that right in front of them, and he was our teacher, our Senegalese teacher who was shouting in English "Do you see this? They are poor!" and my face was burning but they were thanking us for coming and I wanted to help and I couldn't and they weren't asking for our help, they were asking for us to come back when we could help, and to be well until then.
I'm not sure I understood correctly what was going on next but apparently there was someone named Bama, and we were going to visit her house, because that meant we were visiting the "Barack u Bama", so it was funny, right?
It was a tiny room with no electricity, that we all couldn't fit in at once, and so we awkwardly filed in and out of it as quickly as we could, thanking our host for having us. I was the last one, and tried to thank her in Wolof. As I was leaving, another woman beckoned to me. My teacher explained that she was saying that she couldn't afford a gas burner (4,000 CFA- $8) and had to cook over a wood fire, and that she had asked me to buy her a gas burner, but he had already explained that I was a student and didn't have any money. I promised her that next time I came back I'd get her a gas stove. She laughed, and said something else, but I was already walking away. I heard my teacher shout after me "Do you understand, Johanna, what she is saying? You see, she has nothing, absolutely nothing, and she is inviting you to share lunch with her! This is how poor people live here!"
I understand, Professor Kane. It's okay, you don't have to shout. And you don't have to speak English, I understand French. And I understand some Wolof too, enough to ask two little girls if they went to school. Enough to tell Bama's neighbor that next time I'll bring her a gas stove and we'll share lunch.
The children waved goodbye to us, shouting and as we pulled away they started singing as one big grinning clapping waving mob. We waved back, mostly to keep them from climbing onto the car rapide as it was moving. And we drove away, and went back to school. Just like that.
I was not looking forward to the field trip for International Development class. In fact, I was loathing it. Stressing over it. I did NOT want to go. And normally I like field trips.
But all Professor Kane told us was that we were going to visit the Liberté 6 slums, to see how development didn't work. A bunch of white college students going on a field trip to see the "Barack" of people who had been kicked out of their homes so the land could be used for a hotel or airport or restaurant. Displaced people. And we were going to see just how bad they had it. Poor people, our teacher kept reminding us, and he always shouts, in English, to emphasize his point. It was embarassing. I'm not here to see poor people because they're poor. I don't want to be that American who looks and takes pictures and smiles at all the cute children and doesn't give money even though she could and should because isn't it all just so fascinating, how they make do with so little? And isn't it so sad, and even infuriating, all of the indignities they've had to go through because of the circumstances? I don't want to be that American student.
And I was. We all were. Fifteen students took an oh-so-colorful Car Rapide to the Barack of Liberté 6. We were met by a couple who showed us around, and the first thing they said was 'bienvenue". They thanked us for coming to visit, and for taking interest in their group. We got a tour of the polio vaccination clinic, the school and preschool, the old health post (closed down because they couldn't afford supplies or a doctor's salary), the whole neighborhood, really. And everywhere we saw "welcome" it was painted on the sides of buildings and spoken everywhere we went. The most welcome I felt, though, was when we visited the barack Imam. He joked with us and (helped by a translator or two) gave a whole speech about how America was going to help them, about how we were here as students now, but he hoped we could come back later to help out. He showed us the mosque and then prayed, we all did, but it wasn't uncomfortable. We simply held our hands palms up in front of us, bowed our heads, and listened to him (and the translators) say how he hoped we would become the next President of the United States, or marry a Senegalese man or woman, or do well in our studies, and above all be well and come back some day.
This was not a Muslim prayer, it was a human prayer. It was friendly and forgiving and I felt the sun soaking into my palms and I looked at the pack of children that of course had been following us the whole time, and I looked over the corrugated iron rooftops of the makeshift shacks at the shining new apartment complexes and I couldn't understand what the imam was doing or saying but he was still praying for me, one of those American students who came to see the slums, to see how poor people live here. And the professor kept saying at every stop, "can you imagine this? Can you imagine living in these conditions?" and he was saying that right in front of them, and he was our teacher, our Senegalese teacher who was shouting in English "Do you see this? They are poor!" and my face was burning but they were thanking us for coming and I wanted to help and I couldn't and they weren't asking for our help, they were asking for us to come back when we could help, and to be well until then.
I'm not sure I understood correctly what was going on next but apparently there was someone named Bama, and we were going to visit her house, because that meant we were visiting the "Barack u Bama", so it was funny, right?
It was a tiny room with no electricity, that we all couldn't fit in at once, and so we awkwardly filed in and out of it as quickly as we could, thanking our host for having us. I was the last one, and tried to thank her in Wolof. As I was leaving, another woman beckoned to me. My teacher explained that she was saying that she couldn't afford a gas burner (4,000 CFA- $8) and had to cook over a wood fire, and that she had asked me to buy her a gas burner, but he had already explained that I was a student and didn't have any money. I promised her that next time I came back I'd get her a gas stove. She laughed, and said something else, but I was already walking away. I heard my teacher shout after me "Do you understand, Johanna, what she is saying? You see, she has nothing, absolutely nothing, and she is inviting you to share lunch with her! This is how poor people live here!"
I understand, Professor Kane. It's okay, you don't have to shout. And you don't have to speak English, I understand French. And I understand some Wolof too, enough to ask two little girls if they went to school. Enough to tell Bama's neighbor that next time I'll bring her a gas stove and we'll share lunch.
The children waved goodbye to us, shouting and as we pulled away they started singing as one big grinning clapping waving mob. We waved back, mostly to keep them from climbing onto the car rapide as it was moving. And we drove away, and went back to school. Just like that.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
It Makes the World Go Round, Part 1
I have a whole new perspective on money, being here. In so many different ways.
For example. My money. Just getting change in your pocket is a huge ordeal- for me that is. See, my ATM card only works at one specific bank. It's about fifteen minutes walk away from school, which is no big deal I can go when I don't have class. So I walk past first a bunch of embassies (Korea, Liban, United Arab Emirates), turn the corner at the huge baobab and walk along the side of the on-ramp past a bunch of homeless families, mothers and children washing their clothes by the side of the road, eating lunch, begging for money. There's about three mothers with small children there at the gas station, cross the street and I'm at the glass-paned whitewashed CBAO bank. The ATM is in its own little room, and usually when I go it's not working, has a blank screen. So I go inside, the guy knows me by now, tells me to take a seat, the lady with the machine that pulls out money for me is on lunch break. If it's the last week of the month everyone's there because it's payday and the place is packed.
So I sit down in between two gorgeously dressed women in bright colors, and hug my backpack to my chest to lean on. The guard comes over and explains in Wolof to everyone sitting there that this girl here needs to just get some cash, she isn't here to deposit part of her paycheck, so that's why she didn't need to pick a number like the rest of them, so when the lady gets back from lunch I'm going next and they still have to wait because it won't take long. So after about half an hour she gets back and calls me up and it really wouldn't take long did I know my address. But I don't. So first I give her my ATM card, then the paper copy of my passport as ID, and then I explain that since it's stamped, it functions as my passport, it's official don't worry. And then I explain that the reason I didn't sign "Leah" on my card is that it's my middle name and not part of my signature, yes it's part of my real official name but I didn't sign it. And then I can't give them my address, I can tell them I study at WARC, I dont' know that address either but I can say it's in Fann neighborhood. And my phone number is 221 (Senegal) 77(cell phone) 745 8958.
And how much do I want, and can I get it in small bills? If I'm talking to the nice lady at the window, then yes I can, I can have small bills. If not, the machine gives me 10,000 CFA ($20) bills. And that is a problem.
Big bills are terrible. They burn a hole in your pocket. No one has change for a ten. The MyShop that has overpriced European snacks always *has* change, but never wants to give it because all the students stop by to break big bills, so you usually are stuck with the bitchy lady who will be COUNTING CHANGE and say "no, there's no change" even though you can see it. So then you go to the Casino supermarché and buy a grapefruit Fanta in a thick glass bottle and she sees you take out the purple bill and groans, and tells you that she can give you change this time but this is the last time she can do this for you. And then you wait while she walks over to the other cash registers and collects the correct amount of change, holding up everyone else in every other line to give you a fiver. And you try to go to the boutique to split the fiver and they send a boy to the next boutique to ask him, they ask customers if anyone's got change, and grumble the whole time.
So you have to spend money to get money you can spend, and then you have small bills so it doesn't matter if you buy a snack, it's cheap and you have change, and before you know it your money is gone. I am spending so much more than I thought I would simply because it's the way things work, being a student here. Even restaurants don't have change half the time. I'm saving up 2,000 CFA bills to take with me on my internship- if there's no change in Dakar I won't have a chance in Toubacouta. I wonder what it's going to be like on spring break.
For example. My money. Just getting change in your pocket is a huge ordeal- for me that is. See, my ATM card only works at one specific bank. It's about fifteen minutes walk away from school, which is no big deal I can go when I don't have class. So I walk past first a bunch of embassies (Korea, Liban, United Arab Emirates), turn the corner at the huge baobab and walk along the side of the on-ramp past a bunch of homeless families, mothers and children washing their clothes by the side of the road, eating lunch, begging for money. There's about three mothers with small children there at the gas station, cross the street and I'm at the glass-paned whitewashed CBAO bank. The ATM is in its own little room, and usually when I go it's not working, has a blank screen. So I go inside, the guy knows me by now, tells me to take a seat, the lady with the machine that pulls out money for me is on lunch break. If it's the last week of the month everyone's there because it's payday and the place is packed.
So I sit down in between two gorgeously dressed women in bright colors, and hug my backpack to my chest to lean on. The guard comes over and explains in Wolof to everyone sitting there that this girl here needs to just get some cash, she isn't here to deposit part of her paycheck, so that's why she didn't need to pick a number like the rest of them, so when the lady gets back from lunch I'm going next and they still have to wait because it won't take long. So after about half an hour she gets back and calls me up and it really wouldn't take long did I know my address. But I don't. So first I give her my ATM card, then the paper copy of my passport as ID, and then I explain that since it's stamped, it functions as my passport, it's official don't worry. And then I explain that the reason I didn't sign "Leah" on my card is that it's my middle name and not part of my signature, yes it's part of my real official name but I didn't sign it. And then I can't give them my address, I can tell them I study at WARC, I dont' know that address either but I can say it's in Fann neighborhood. And my phone number is 221 (Senegal) 77(cell phone) 745 8958.
And how much do I want, and can I get it in small bills? If I'm talking to the nice lady at the window, then yes I can, I can have small bills. If not, the machine gives me 10,000 CFA ($20) bills. And that is a problem.
Big bills are terrible. They burn a hole in your pocket. No one has change for a ten. The MyShop that has overpriced European snacks always *has* change, but never wants to give it because all the students stop by to break big bills, so you usually are stuck with the bitchy lady who will be COUNTING CHANGE and say "no, there's no change" even though you can see it. So then you go to the Casino supermarché and buy a grapefruit Fanta in a thick glass bottle and she sees you take out the purple bill and groans, and tells you that she can give you change this time but this is the last time she can do this for you. And then you wait while she walks over to the other cash registers and collects the correct amount of change, holding up everyone else in every other line to give you a fiver. And you try to go to the boutique to split the fiver and they send a boy to the next boutique to ask him, they ask customers if anyone's got change, and grumble the whole time.
So you have to spend money to get money you can spend, and then you have small bills so it doesn't matter if you buy a snack, it's cheap and you have change, and before you know it your money is gone. I am spending so much more than I thought I would simply because it's the way things work, being a student here. Even restaurants don't have change half the time. I'm saving up 2,000 CFA bills to take with me on my internship- if there's no change in Dakar I won't have a chance in Toubacouta. I wonder what it's going to be like on spring break.
Fatayas
There are small mangoes starting to grow on the tree in the back yard. I have a mango tree growing in my back yard. I have a cherry tree and an apple tree in my back yard. The branches shake when the cats jump from the neighbor's rooftops onto the tree. The branches shake when squirrels jump from the neighbor's garage. Midwestern mosquitoes are huge and loud and you can feel when they bite you. African mosquitoes are tiny and you can only hear them when they buzz in people's ears at night. This Saturday I'm going salsa dancing. This summer I'm going square dancing. The full moon last night was so bright it lit up the streets when the power went out. You can see the lights from the stadium all the way from my house.
Friday night I went salsa dancing again. The head waiter said hi- he recognized us, and even remembered my name. Patrice was there, and the Puerto-Rican-striped-shirt, I love how a kiss on the cheek is the proper greeting for friends even if you don't remember their name. Even between two men. I danced a little bit more than last time (last time I danced a total of three times, though, so that's not saying much), I got to dance with Mohammed again, he even walked back to where we were sitting behind the pool table (the only chairs open- the place is always packed)to ask me to dance! And this man in a tweed suit who could move better than anyone else besides the teachers, I found out he was a dance teacher in Italy, but on vacation here, he knew all the staff and wore a fedora and a tie and jacket. He taught me the first steps of something, said he'd teach me the rest next week. I danced a basic pachata even, which was fun if a little awkward. Today's lesson day again. Laura, when she finally got there (she's got bad karma with taxis, always gets the drivers who barely speak french and get her lost, we spent so much time calling and trying to figure out where she was) ordered a drink with rum and ditax juice, it was really good, she sat with Elke and they didn't really dance and were pretty tired and I hope they had fun 'cause Kaela and I certainly were. Maybe next week I'll take Mohammed's advice and leave my shyness at the door.
The next day we decided to go to the market again, Sandagas of course, meet everyone at N'Ice cream (the coconut flavor is amazing, more like a sorbet, it's got real coconut, and I also got strawberry tirimisu), and I went shopping for fabric with Kenta and Kaela once we split up in smaller groups. It's nearly impossible to keep more than three people together in that place. And it was even Gammul,(the prophet Mohammed's birthday?) a national holiday, so there were only half as many people, it was calm by comparison, only five guys decided they were our guides.
Things I saw at the market that day:
- Two small boys peeing in the street
- a man in a black t-shirt with simple white lettering "fuck criminal"
- a man in a shoe store wearing a shirt that said "support your country: vote Obama"
- a girl walking in front of us was wearing a very fashionable but very revealing tank top with no back. I could count her ribs from behind. She had the fanciest hairdo and shiny gold high heels, and I could count her ribs from behind.
- a man trying to sell me "gucci" belts
- I bought a luggage lock from a cart
- an old man mumbled "kiss me" in wolof as we walked by, jokingly
- a tie-dyed Happy Bunny tank top for sale
- a man with dreds and ghandi glasses smoking a pipe
- a man with a small mesh crate filled with songbirds, he tried to sell us some
- carts, next to each other, selling locks, bras, fish, soccer jerseys, brightly colored boxers, flip flops, fabric, , dried hibiscus flowers, camera chargers, baby shoes, lightbulbs, used books, wood carvings, paintings, dresses, sunglasses, bags of water, pens, socks, mosquito nets, and chickens, among other things.
You really can find anything if you have the time and patience to handle the market. one of our "guides" proved useful too, since I knew what I was looking for. Before, they all were just annoying, trying to lead me from one store to the next asking what I wanted to buy. This day, though, when they asked I just said I was looking for fabric, they asked what kind I said wax, they asked how much I said three metres. They lead me right to one store, no I don't want to go there let's go here instead and since I wouldn't let myself be persuaded they had to follow me. I had one man holding different fabrics I was considering buying, I told him I wanted blue and he helped point out some nice ones. He talked to the shop owner and I understood enough Wolof this time to realize he wasn't trying to cheat me. We negotiated prices and amounts and since it was clear I knew what I wanted it wasn't overwhelming. I got everything needed that day, so did Kaela and Kenta, we did spend almost four hours there. It was so hot, though, I ended up buying a liter of bissap (hibiscus) juice at a boutique near N'Ice cream. It was really strong and I couldn't finish it, so I brought it home and put it in the fridge. And of course, here in Senegal it'd be the worst faux pas ever to not share, so I told everyone, made a point of telling everyone that there was juice in the fridge if anyone wanted any.
Next morning I help Mama Binta make fatayas since I don't have much homework. She calls me over, mentions that bissap I brought home yesterday, where did I get it? And did I drink right from the bottle? yes of course, it was hot and I didn't have a cup. Oh dear. Well she explains that when you want to bring home juice for the family, you don't drink right from the bottle, you pour it into glasses, it's better that way. She doesn't drink from anything that has touched someone else's lips, it isn't good. I explain that I had some leftover. She says it's not a problem, now I know for next time, but I leave with a flushed face, feeling very barbaric. What could I do? saving it just for me would be even worse. And we all drink from the same cup at dinner- well, I don't, but that's because I can't drink the same water 'cause it's from the faucet. We eat from the same plate, I thought it wouldn't be any trouble to share the juice.
I start folding the fatayas. There's a new boy to help make them, he works really really slowly and I can't help feeling a little proud of myself until Mama tells me that I'm using too much filling, wanñi ko!
Wanñi ko. I know those words. I was almost too excited that I could understand the wolof, I almost didn't realize that what it means is "lessen it" or "lower it". It's the phrase I learned-and later used- on Friday at the market, negotiating taxis and fabric prices. Dafa jafe, wanñi ko. That's expensive, lower the price!
Or, in this case, use less filling. You're doing it wrong. Again. After six full weeks, you're doing it wrong. I understand just enough Wolof to know that I'm doing it wrong. I understand the words, I'm only just starting to understand the words, and what she understands is that she doesn't comprehend. Doesn't comprehend the culture, the daily life, the way we do things here. Ndank ndank moy japp golo ci niaye. Slowly, slowly, step by step. There's a new boy hired to help make the fataya, he works really really slowly and i can't help feeling a little ashamed of myself that I don't even know his name. He's learning and I thought I had already learned.
I really did think I'd gotten the hang of things, knew what to expect.
But I saw a few groups of tourists at the market, you could tell they were tourists because they were toubabs and they were followed by a crowd of men shaking necklaces, headphones, belts, at them. They were followed by people asking how are you my sister, and they looked terrified and angry and tired. And we said look at those toubabs, poor tourists, they don't realize that the market is actually quiet today. Look at them I doubt they can barter like we've learned to, I bet they paid too much for the taxi ride here, I wonder if they're students.
And then I wonder if I still paid too much for the taxi. And I look behind and see a man shaking a fistfull of sunglasses at me. And I'm filling fatayas and filling fatayas and telling the taxi driver to wanñi ko and then thanking him in French and trusting him to take me where I need to go. And I stare at the other toubabs on the street because they're white like me, and I call them toubabs because that's what we are here, and then a boy shouts "toubab cherie!" at me and I inform him that am na tur, I have a name, tudd uma toubab, my name isn't toubab. And I have lived here for only six weeks and all of six weeks. My mother makes fatayas and she teaches me how and I learn really fast and forget to pay attention to where I am.
I got everything I needed at the market, and brought some bissap home for my family, and negotiated taxi fares in Wolof. That is what I did this weekend. And I still don't know how much I don't know. Which is frustrating. But I understand a little. Which is worth it.
Friday night I went salsa dancing again. The head waiter said hi- he recognized us, and even remembered my name. Patrice was there, and the Puerto-Rican-striped-shirt, I love how a kiss on the cheek is the proper greeting for friends even if you don't remember their name. Even between two men. I danced a little bit more than last time (last time I danced a total of three times, though, so that's not saying much), I got to dance with Mohammed again, he even walked back to where we were sitting behind the pool table (the only chairs open- the place is always packed)to ask me to dance! And this man in a tweed suit who could move better than anyone else besides the teachers, I found out he was a dance teacher in Italy, but on vacation here, he knew all the staff and wore a fedora and a tie and jacket. He taught me the first steps of something, said he'd teach me the rest next week. I danced a basic pachata even, which was fun if a little awkward. Today's lesson day again. Laura, when she finally got there (she's got bad karma with taxis, always gets the drivers who barely speak french and get her lost, we spent so much time calling and trying to figure out where she was) ordered a drink with rum and ditax juice, it was really good, she sat with Elke and they didn't really dance and were pretty tired and I hope they had fun 'cause Kaela and I certainly were. Maybe next week I'll take Mohammed's advice and leave my shyness at the door.
The next day we decided to go to the market again, Sandagas of course, meet everyone at N'Ice cream (the coconut flavor is amazing, more like a sorbet, it's got real coconut, and I also got strawberry tirimisu), and I went shopping for fabric with Kenta and Kaela once we split up in smaller groups. It's nearly impossible to keep more than three people together in that place. And it was even Gammul,(the prophet Mohammed's birthday?) a national holiday, so there were only half as many people, it was calm by comparison, only five guys decided they were our guides.
Things I saw at the market that day:
- Two small boys peeing in the street
- a man in a black t-shirt with simple white lettering "fuck criminal"
- a man in a shoe store wearing a shirt that said "support your country: vote Obama"
- a girl walking in front of us was wearing a very fashionable but very revealing tank top with no back. I could count her ribs from behind. She had the fanciest hairdo and shiny gold high heels, and I could count her ribs from behind.
- a man trying to sell me "gucci" belts
- I bought a luggage lock from a cart
- an old man mumbled "kiss me" in wolof as we walked by, jokingly
- a tie-dyed Happy Bunny tank top for sale
- a man with dreds and ghandi glasses smoking a pipe
- a man with a small mesh crate filled with songbirds, he tried to sell us some
- carts, next to each other, selling locks, bras, fish, soccer jerseys, brightly colored boxers, flip flops, fabric, , dried hibiscus flowers, camera chargers, baby shoes, lightbulbs, used books, wood carvings, paintings, dresses, sunglasses, bags of water, pens, socks, mosquito nets, and chickens, among other things.
You really can find anything if you have the time and patience to handle the market. one of our "guides" proved useful too, since I knew what I was looking for. Before, they all were just annoying, trying to lead me from one store to the next asking what I wanted to buy. This day, though, when they asked I just said I was looking for fabric, they asked what kind I said wax, they asked how much I said three metres. They lead me right to one store, no I don't want to go there let's go here instead and since I wouldn't let myself be persuaded they had to follow me. I had one man holding different fabrics I was considering buying, I told him I wanted blue and he helped point out some nice ones. He talked to the shop owner and I understood enough Wolof this time to realize he wasn't trying to cheat me. We negotiated prices and amounts and since it was clear I knew what I wanted it wasn't overwhelming. I got everything needed that day, so did Kaela and Kenta, we did spend almost four hours there. It was so hot, though, I ended up buying a liter of bissap (hibiscus) juice at a boutique near N'Ice cream. It was really strong and I couldn't finish it, so I brought it home and put it in the fridge. And of course, here in Senegal it'd be the worst faux pas ever to not share, so I told everyone, made a point of telling everyone that there was juice in the fridge if anyone wanted any.
Next morning I help Mama Binta make fatayas since I don't have much homework. She calls me over, mentions that bissap I brought home yesterday, where did I get it? And did I drink right from the bottle? yes of course, it was hot and I didn't have a cup. Oh dear. Well she explains that when you want to bring home juice for the family, you don't drink right from the bottle, you pour it into glasses, it's better that way. She doesn't drink from anything that has touched someone else's lips, it isn't good. I explain that I had some leftover. She says it's not a problem, now I know for next time, but I leave with a flushed face, feeling very barbaric. What could I do? saving it just for me would be even worse. And we all drink from the same cup at dinner- well, I don't, but that's because I can't drink the same water 'cause it's from the faucet. We eat from the same plate, I thought it wouldn't be any trouble to share the juice.
I start folding the fatayas. There's a new boy to help make them, he works really really slowly and I can't help feeling a little proud of myself until Mama tells me that I'm using too much filling, wanñi ko!
Wanñi ko. I know those words. I was almost too excited that I could understand the wolof, I almost didn't realize that what it means is "lessen it" or "lower it". It's the phrase I learned-and later used- on Friday at the market, negotiating taxis and fabric prices. Dafa jafe, wanñi ko. That's expensive, lower the price!
Or, in this case, use less filling. You're doing it wrong. Again. After six full weeks, you're doing it wrong. I understand just enough Wolof to know that I'm doing it wrong. I understand the words, I'm only just starting to understand the words, and what she understands is that she doesn't comprehend. Doesn't comprehend the culture, the daily life, the way we do things here. Ndank ndank moy japp golo ci niaye. Slowly, slowly, step by step. There's a new boy hired to help make the fataya, he works really really slowly and i can't help feeling a little ashamed of myself that I don't even know his name. He's learning and I thought I had already learned.
I really did think I'd gotten the hang of things, knew what to expect.
But I saw a few groups of tourists at the market, you could tell they were tourists because they were toubabs and they were followed by a crowd of men shaking necklaces, headphones, belts, at them. They were followed by people asking how are you my sister, and they looked terrified and angry and tired. And we said look at those toubabs, poor tourists, they don't realize that the market is actually quiet today. Look at them I doubt they can barter like we've learned to, I bet they paid too much for the taxi ride here, I wonder if they're students.
And then I wonder if I still paid too much for the taxi. And I look behind and see a man shaking a fistfull of sunglasses at me. And I'm filling fatayas and filling fatayas and telling the taxi driver to wanñi ko and then thanking him in French and trusting him to take me where I need to go. And I stare at the other toubabs on the street because they're white like me, and I call them toubabs because that's what we are here, and then a boy shouts "toubab cherie!" at me and I inform him that am na tur, I have a name, tudd uma toubab, my name isn't toubab. And I have lived here for only six weeks and all of six weeks. My mother makes fatayas and she teaches me how and I learn really fast and forget to pay attention to where I am.
I got everything I needed at the market, and brought some bissap home for my family, and negotiated taxi fares in Wolof. That is what I did this weekend. And I still don't know how much I don't know. Which is frustrating. But I understand a little. Which is worth it.
Rough draft-ish...
Johanna Gorman-Baer
MSID Country Analysis
FOR #2, 5 Mars 2010
Sunday I went over to Kaela and Elke’s house for the baptism. Mama Binta had made a mountain of beignets the day before and I’d helped Kaela pick out a cute pair of baby shoes and socks for her new niece. From my backyard I saw people hanging out on the roof so I headed over after breakfast. Kaela and Elke were wearing traditional outfits and I felt really really really underdressed, but I guess Baaly, another sister, said it wasn’t a problem. Still, we spent a good long time sitting in the bedroom watching Baaly and her sister Ami (the mother) getting ready. For some reason it was fascinating watching the two women putting on makeup. Baaly was brushing gold glitter over her already purple-glossed lips and her eyebrows had been plucked and drawn on purple and gold. Ami was twisting her gelled hair into swirls and pinning them down. Baaly’s two daughters were climbing all over the small, hot room, almost stepping on the baby (who didn’t yet have a name), but they were adorable with their little braids and fancy new clothes.
I’m always amazed at how glamorous women here can be. They spend so much time on how they look, making sure everything is just right. In the States if a woman had given birth a week earlier, she’d be in sweatpants and t-shirts for the next five years taking care of the kid. Here? A baptism is another excuse to look fabulous. Even though I don’t think Ami ever left the house, she changed her outfit, hair, and makeup at least twice over the course of the day. In the morning, though, she was still in gold, and we were stumbling through a Wolof conversation and eating lakh. I barely noticed when a woman came into the bedroom to take a bag of kola nuts from the dresser and the baby (whose eyebrows had also been penciled in), and I don’t think Ami even nodded to her or faltered in her sentence. The conversation continued, we filled up with lakh, and a few hours later the baby was brought back in, as Ndeye Mati Fall. And she was laid back on the bed near her mother, who nodded and continued the conversation. And that was the baptism- the ceremony, at least.
The mother didn’t have anything to do with it! She’d gotten all dressed up to sit on the bed and make small talk with relatives while the ceremony was going on in the next room? I thought I would get to see a Senegalese baptism ceremony and instead I missed it- as did almost everyone else. I still don’t know where or how it happened. All I know is that it apparently wasn’t a big deal. Half the party didn’t know what the baby’s name was- I didn’t even find out until I asked Kaela the following day. The mother wasn’t a part of it at all. Elke assured me that she did have a say in the child’s name, but before that I was wondering how much a say she had in the matter. It seemed more like the baptism was an excuse to have everyone over for a party. And in this case, “party” means everyone sits around lazily chatting while children run wild and play with the toubabs.
At one point in the day I had three girls braiding my hair at one time, all under the age of ten. They were adorable, and were patient with my Wolof, and the parents were glad to have the kids distracted. Parents here are much more willing to let their kids run around as long as they’re among friends and family- and family members are more willing to take responsibility for other children. No one was surprised that I spent most of the day with a toddler on my hip- it meant I was keeping him out of trouble at least. There was definitely a feeling of community that day, even if I didn’t understand the language most of the time.
The house was big so even though we stayed inside there was plenty of room and several different rooms to sit in. We did do a lot of sitting. Things were less stuffy up on the roof where at least there was a breeze. However, when I saw Kaela’s brother Ibu pulling a sheep up the stairs, we took that as a hint to leave. We didn’t come back upstairs until lunchtime, when the sheep was, well, much easier to carry, shall we say. It was also delicious, once I got used to sitting next to a bucket (what was left) with feet sticking out of it. We all sat on the floor on mats, around huge plates of cebb u yapp. There was so much food! It was delicious, though. I sat at a plate with a bunch of men, and we all were given spoons. Looking around I noticed that most of the women ate with their hands, but the men and children ate with spoons- I wonder why.
I left before dinner and went home. Waiting for my family to get back from Baobab, the power went out, which by now is such a normal occurrence that I didn’t think anything of it. I heard the party still going on, though, in the dark, over the rooftops in the backyard. What a day.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
For you Entertainment
The three things I hear constantly:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2pWxOyE3uKU&feature=related
(My sister sings this constantly. And by that I mean she walks around the house going "I fly, you fly, we fly. I wanna fly")
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3mHMWO_-mM&feature=fvst
(This song is the number one hit. You hear it on the radio, on TV, people play it from their cell phones, my eight year old brother sings it, as does my mom. They don't know what it means.)
and, of course,
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdv42XJXi1o&feature=PlayList&p=D5A323FB7FA88F1E&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=50
without the weird background tones. five times a day, from two different directions.
I'm working on another post, I promise, it's just taking longer than usual.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2pWxOyE3uKU&feature=related
(My sister sings this constantly. And by that I mean she walks around the house going "I fly, you fly, we fly. I wanna fly")
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3mHMWO_-mM&feature=fvst
(This song is the number one hit. You hear it on the radio, on TV, people play it from their cell phones, my eight year old brother sings it, as does my mom. They don't know what it means.)
and, of course,
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdv42XJXi1o&feature=PlayList&p=D5A323FB7FA88F1E&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=50
without the weird background tones. five times a day, from two different directions.
I'm working on another post, I promise, it's just taking longer than usual.
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