Circling the Baobabs

Maangi ci Amerik -- I'm home.

2006-07-10T18:21:00.000Z

"It's so green," the first words out of my mouth breathed to Israel, the Nigerian sitting next to me, as we touched down in Minneapolis. He'd watched my fidgety attempts to maintain conversation since we left JFK and smiled knowing what it's like to leave a place so different and come home after so long.

I'm backing into my third week being home. I'm slowly leaving one life for another and letting go of what I don't need to be here. More than anything I feel dizzy with the effort of switching between different realities. What was true there isn't here. What came hard there is easy here, but yet somehow infinitely more complicated. But I'm here maangi fii rekk alhumdulilah. I was having trouble with color for awhile and went to the greenhouse the other day and found comfort in the vibrant garden flowers. The green here is brillant. So much rain has left this area amass in dark green trees and grass. But my eyes keep seeking the bright African tissu and coming up with lots of pale. I feasted on a pair of my brother's sunglasses with orange lens and I felt I'd made up for some of the lost color.

But really when it comes down to it the things that I expected to marvel at, I'm not, and the things I expected to be easy, are hard. I walked into Wal-Mart without a whole lot of fanfare. I've heard of people coming back from Africa and standing startled in an aisle trying to fathom so many choices. But for some reason I didn't have that experience. It's America. We are the land of where that's all we do is choose. What's harder is knowing how to be with people. It's so easy to slip into old roles, but breaking out of them is a challenge. It's hard feeling like I left pieces of me in Senegal, parts of me I never draw on being here. And just the transition from leaving one life behind and trying to start a new one -- now I'm on to the The Next Step but where do I go from here?

In the meantime, just trying to take pleasure in the small things, which is what brought me around to loving Senegal, and I know it can work for being home. I spent the weekend by the lake with my family kayaking, roasting marshmallows, sitting in lawn chairs, taking four-wheeler rides in the country, getting tipsy on beer, watching fireworks, and trying trying to take in the quiet of South Dakota. There were moments in Dakar where I would have given anything for a weekend of South Dakota solitude and now that it's here it's my inside that can't keep still.

Finding color.

Riding my brother's Harley.

South Dakota skies. This is enough to ground me, at least for a moment.

Mon dernier plat du ceeb

2006-06-23T15:08:00.000Z

In a world I'd only slipped into here and there during my stay in Senegal, I'd suddenly became apart of it, even if only for a few moments on a Sunday afternoon, it was my glimpse at the life of a Senegalese woman. With the help of the women in my family -- my host sisters, Lala and Matou, maman and the maid Khady -- I prepared my first plate of ceebujen. There are many dishes in Senegal, but ceebujen (fish and rice and oh so much more) is the main one that comes to mind and considered the national plat. Every student who comes through Senegal eats their fair share -- and some of us have come to love it while others are content to never eat it again. It's definitely become my soul food and I'll miss it when I'm gone.

Someday I'll write an ode to ceebujen, but today I'm too emotional as is thinking of leaving Senegal. I fly late tonight, early this morning. My family here is planning my send off and my family at home is awaiting my arrival, it's the 17 hours in between, switching between the two worlds, doing it alone, I haven't been alone since I left for Senegal. And now somewhere between these two continents I will be forever stretched no matter à quelle côté. That's my pleasure and my burden, it just doesn't make the comings and goings very easy.

Senegal has seeped into every part of my life it's hard to know how to unweave it, how to extract myself, and come home. I see myself at home with my family, having coffee with friends, reveling in the conveniences of America and not being stared at, eating burritos and ice cream and sushi. All this I see and taste and feel, yet it still all feels unreal that in a matter of eight hours I can quitte Dakar, the doors will open, and I can be in
America -- taf-taf.

Maangi dem - Leaving

2006-06-20T12:11:00.000Z

Saturday night, my last in Dakar, I finally went to see Youssou N'dour. He's Senegal's most famous celebrity and singer, revered with the top African musicians, has toured everywhere, released plusiers best-selling albums, and when he's at home he plays every weekend (Friday, Saturday, and Sunday) at his Club Thiossane (meaning roots in wolof) in Amities 2 in Dakar. I'd found a CD of his at the library before I came to Senegal. I remember thinking he had an amazing voice, but I couldn't really get into his music. Now after hearing it played in my ear in so many taxis and dancing to it at Dakar night clubs it 's comfort food.

The thing about Youssou N'dour is he spearheaded a whole genre of popular music in Senegal, so now if you're not hearing his music, you're hearing a pretty good rip off of it. His music also fits hand-in-hand with a particular style of dance here called mbalax, which arguably Senegalese could mbalax to anything it doesn't necessarily have to be Youssou N'Dour or anyone like him. It's a dance mostly done with the knees and the occasional hip bump thrown in there to varying degrees depending on if you're male or female.

Unfortunately I'd waited until my last weekend to see him because I would love to go back for more nights at his club or even catching him at the various other places he plays around Senegal. He's an incredible performer and I did my best to sway and dance and mbalax with the best of them just until 4 a.m. and I barely walked out of the club.

Raising sail to Saint Louis

2006-06-07T14:40:00.000Z

There's something about setting out on the open road that's liberating -- the starting anew, the getting out, the leaving well what's left behind. Though lately I've been more in the mindset of frequenting my old haunts, sticking with the familiar, and above all not stepping foot out of Dakar -- my dominion, mon fief. But this weekend we took to the road for Saint Louis for the annual (inshallah -- when god wills it) jazz fest. I've spoken of Saint Louis before, at the northern tip of Senegal where river meets ocean and the Mauritanian border lurks over the next bend. It was the capital of West Africa before Dakar, so the old colonial architecture still stands, making a beautiful and appropriate backdrop for listening to good music and being with friends.

Saint Louis has a bit of a complicated geography as the center of the city is an island divided by a fork in the river. As you cross over the first bridge onto the island you find the centre ville and all its UNESCO-protected colonial architecture. Once you leave and cross over the bridge on the other side you'll end up on the "tongue" or the Langue de Berberie and this is where you drive through the fishing areas, the women drying and dicing fish, the pirogues (boats) in various forms of construction lining the road running alongside the river. So basically one side of the Langue is river and the other is ocean, so once at the tongue's end the two merge in a heep of sand erosion and beached jelly fish and other sea fish which can't survive the fresh water.

The side of the Langue with the ocean is an incredible stretch of sandy beach and waves that just keep coming and folding and unfolding. Some of my favorite visits to Saint Louis have been to this beach and just walking with no end in sight.

We rented out the top of the Harmattan, a hotel run by an old spinster French woman named Rene. She could pass for an Elizabeth Taylor in her appearance. Her walls are crowded with photos of her on horses and sensual sketches of her in her younger days, and she had pets in varying degrees of disguise -- cats, parrots, dogs, horses, birds. She let half her apartment since all the hotel rooms we're already occupied by the time we got in. It was our luck since it's a beautiful apartment comfortably decorated leaving plenty of nooks to read and write plus it gave us the freedom to spread out our own meals and come and go as if it were our weekend home.

We passed the evenings staying out late going in and out of various bars and clubs listening to a few moments of music and dancing a few songs just to leave and do the same at the next place. I got to reconnect with my Mauritanian friends (peace corps!) almost getting stepped on by a skinny Senegalese man on stilts kicking my chair to move so he could dance the mbalax. But at least getting the chance to share a beer with those who appreciate Gazelle far too much and especially staring into a Desperado trying to work through questions of happiness with Caleb.

And especially the short, stolen moments with Samba trying to figure out how this person so cleverly and quickly came into my life. Sitting by the river, taking pictures of the bridge, listening to good acoustic music, feeling safe and charmed and right. Taking a just before sunset walk on that long stretch of beach I love throwing stories and explanations into the windy waves and jumping over bits of jelly fish. And our final day, the surprise bike ride around the island -- when did I bike last...? Maybe last summer. But it's true about never forgetting how.

Catching up

2006-05-23T09:48:00.000Z

Since I started the posts on Mauritanian a lot has gone on in Senegal that I have yet to write. Last Wednesday I finished my program here, capping it with my first 10 page research paper in French. The end of the semester here is one of the most intense moments of our program with the stress of finals and the added pressure of wanting to spend as much time with the American friends who are leaving and getting in final dinners with our host families. And then just contemplating what it's going to be like to go home after an experience like this and figuring out what Senegal means. Saying goodbye is difficult under any circumstance, but especially, for me, saying goodbye to a place that is so integrated into my life that I have a hard time imagining it not there. The day that I wake up without a Senegal to step out into is going to be a very difficult one even as it's combined with seeing my brothers and my mom and my dad and my good friends who've waited patiently for me to come home. This is why I've been so hesitant to leave. So I'm staying on for another few weeks. I don't know what I intend to accomplish except to try to prepare myself to leave and to get in a few more moments with this place and the people who've become apart of it for me.

One day last month having lunch Chez Astou in the Medina.

Coming home

2006-05-09T16:39:00.000Z

Trying to get the taxi started, but at least we're in Senegal again.

I want to say this about our voyage: I've never decided to set out like that, to discover a country on my own, to go without a plan. All of my previous trips have been with a purpose, never to just go on a whim, with no itinerary in mind. We were equipped with a few changes of clothes and an outdated West Africa Lonely Planet. En plus, we were two girls from Senegal making the trek alone, making it after a sejour of seven months in Senegal lending to our ability to dig deeper than just the topsoil of the place and really try to see it out -- within the rights of our limitations in how far you can really know in 10 days. We could shed certain cliches like traveling in a taxi brousse or the feeling of "being in Africa" or of buying a cheesy African souvenirs to take home. Further, we found ourselves embraced constantly by a Senegalese world, one in which we never would have discovered had we set foot in Mauritania cold without a Senegal under our belt. We found Wolof and names we knew to pronounce and family friends who aided and directed and talked to us along the way -- it was a a home away from home transporting us from familiar to new and back again.

And Tsilat was a love. The way we learned to mold ourselves to each other. You don't have tissue but I do. Where's my chapstick, here use mine. Sitting half on each other laps four deep in a backseat made for three of a small Mercedes and scheming when to best collectively shift so the dozing butt cheek could tingle to life again. The long talks in the desert staring out at the full moon lit dunes or entertaining ourselves with stories of our childhood, our adulthood, and where we go from here sitting in a car full of strangers who don't speak English and the strange feeling you get when just release something so private and hope that your assumption that no one speaks English is true.

And we came home. Back to Dakar. What a feeling to know the road, the buildings, the layout, the food, to remember what we love, what we hate, and to finally finally fall into the uncomfortable lumpy beds at our host family's house and know that it's ours, it's the familiar, and that we made it. Somehow, my god, Senegal we're back.

Sleeping with ants

2006-05-05T14:20:00.000Z

I don't know how long we drove. I fell asleep with Tsilat untying my braids. When I woke up, she told me how the driver kept swerving to make sure people we're awake and would hit things near a sleeping person and was arguing loudly with the women in the backseat. I must have escaped his attention.

We stopped sometime with the driver pulling fastly onto the side of the road and he killed the car in front of a small square cement building and everyone tumbled out. Tsilat and I didn't really know what was happening and we asked a man getting out who said "The driver is tired and he wants to sleep."

At this point we were more angry than scared, but still powerless in our situation. We were on the side of a long road with only white sand desert on either side. I didn't have service on my phone and I didn't feel like I had the backing of the other passengers to organize a coup on the driver and demand he continue driving.

Since we were slow at getting out of the car, once we walked into the small, one story cement building where we were staying the night, everyone had already grabbed a foam mat on the floor. We were thrown a dirty pillow and pointed to the floor. Tsilat has her "netela" or scarf that she takes everywhere when she travels. Before she leaves she douches it in perfume so it always hints at the smell of home and familiarity. It was our one source of comfort this night as the cheap walls of this damned structure didn't keep out the coldness of the night. As the ants made their way up my pant legs and the back of my shirt and Tsilat and I huddled on the floor together trying to figure out how in the world we're going to be able to sleep.

The driver's alarm went off once and I thought for sure we must be going now. But he shut it off and still we didn't budge. By dawn, the men woke and went outside to pray, then came in and began making tea. The only thing I could think is, "No not now. Not tea." And, "how many rounds are they going to do?" as I watched the gas burner which was slowly running out of fuel and had only the tinest of flame attempt to boil a pot of water. They offered it to us and Tsilat and I both shook our head in one same movement not even wanting to associate this experience with the good memories of Mauritanian tea.

Finally, they took only two rounds and the door swung open to reveal sun and the flat whiteness of the land surrounding us. We squeezed again into the car our fumes stifling, our anger hurting us, and that's when we got a flat tire. Again, out of the car, sitting on a pile of sand calculating what we'll say to the taximan once we finally reach Nouakchott. Tsilat in her fierceness asking me how do you say "liar" in french?" and wishing to hurle at the driver, "tu connais 'fuck you!'?"

And when we arrived in Nouakchott less than two hours later it didn't make any sense why we'd passed the night on the road if we were this close. Before the car even stopped, we were out, clutching for a bags, and leaving, walking away, getting out, finding our own way, jumping in a green Mercedes taxi. Chez Molly. We were going home. We were safe.

Molly heard our taxi when it pulled up. She came down her long stairs and we fell into her relieved and full of our scary tale. We made coffee from the US, ate frosted flakes she'd some how managed to acquire in Mauritania, and we relived, we let it go, lucky to be unharmed.

Driving in cars with boys

2006-05-03T15:49:00.000Z

Our trip to get there, to arrive safely back in Molly's living room, was something of a bad dream. I'm hesistant to explain it here. It's the part in the story where I write to my mom telling her not to read anymore, but I'll go on with it.

It was mid-morning and we'd arrived back at our auberge in Chinguitti just in time to take the taxi back to Atar there we would get a taxi to Nouakchott where our friends were waiting for us. The owner of our auberge, Cheikh, offered us the services of his taxi driver friend who was going a little bit later in the day to Atar. It made sense since all the taxis leaving out of Atar wouldn't leave until after lunch anyway and this way we could rest comfortably here until then.

I took my time showering off the desert watching the sand cascade out of my hair and twirl in the drain. The cold water almost burned my skin it'd solar stored so much sun. We ate a lunch of cooked rice and carrots, overdid ourselves on the usual three rounds of tea by drinking nearly eight or nine petits tasses, then just laid with the breeze letting the hot of the afternoon come and go. When it became time, I asked Cheikh about our taxi. He said his friend was coming. But then when later came and friend didn't come, we headed into town to find some kind of car to Atar. We asked about and finally found a man driving a station wagon who said he was going all the way to Nouakschott. He already had two passengers and was intending to pick up more in Atar. The car jangled and moved rather precariously on its axle, but we had it in our head that we'd be in Nouakchott by night and we were soft-skinned and wide-eyed our desert trip, as if anything could go wrong.

I even hate to relive this, but here goes. We piled into the taxi getting rejolted out of our post-desert slumber to a dusty gravelly road coming at us fast and quick and loose. Dust filtered through every crevice and covered everywhere in the car. I wrapped a scarf around my head till only my eyes showed. The driver swerved down the roads only just controlling the car but I practiced my new state of zen and tried reading. I grew up driving a station wagon on gravel roads in South Dakota if ever there is one truth it's that it's not an easy task to drive fast and stay on the road. But I begged innocence and figured we'd be okay.

And we were. At least for that leg. We arrived in Atar. Tsilat and I waited at the station while the driver went to get the car washed of dust. We had toilettes and tea and some small fried doughnuts. Three little boys tried to talk to us and when they asked our name the one boy staring intently at me screamed out "Michelle!" and I realized he'd read the necklace from Egypt with my name written in Arabic.

Our driver came back with one more passenger and we finally thought we were on our way. We counted down the hours figuring we'd be in Nouakchott by midnight. The sun was just setting as we left and a flash of a premonition from Gray about never traveling at night in Africa and here it was nearly night, here it was Africa, and here it was me in a taxicar and somehow I still thought it would be okay sending off my last message before we went out of range to Caleb and Molly waiting for us in Nouakschott, "We'll be there by midnight."

This whole time Tsilat and I had been slowly enleve-ing taking out my braids. I felt like I had half the sand of the Sahara stored in my tresses, my braids, and I was ready to be done with them. We stopped once just as the sun sashayed to a close for the men to pray. When they got back in they started to batter us with their questions about our marital status, what we were doing here, about how pretty we are, about how we should find husbands. At first it was just annoying and then persistent and then demanding and rude and scary. A shift in the car, a wall put up, a serious gap of seperation and not a pretty one and not one we had control over who could cross.

We stopped in some small town and picked up a large women dressed raggedly carrying a large bag. She bantered with the men and helped pull out my braids and the atmosphere changed slightly though I didn't feel I could trust her much. Then the driver said he was going to drop her at her village some ways off the road. It didn't seem like we had a choice to say no, but none of our other taxis had been like this. I wasn't sure what we w'ere getting into. All our other taxis had driven straight to the destination and now we were in one that didn't and with unpleasant, potentially threatening men. The circumstances we're entirely out of our hands with very few cities in between Atar and Nouakchott.

As we were driving off-road to take the woman home the driver sensing our discomfort and our fear said he was going to stop for the night at her house eat couscous and drink tea. Obviously not something we wanted to do considering the circumstances and how much we just wanted to get to Molly and Caleb waiting for us. We continued never straight always forward.

We arrived in Akjoujt about midnight, the only semi-large town between Atar and Nouakchott and everyone got out of the car except us. Pretty soon men started coming up to our window leering in "Hi How are you?" and asking "Are you from America?" It was the first and only time we encountered so many English speakers and in this case it wasn't a relief. In the midst of trying to fend off jeering men, the taximan came back and told us to get out he was going to go run an errand. We looked worriedly at each other and talked frantically asking to stay with the car. The last thing we wanted was to get out, out there. The driver refused and started yelling at us to get out, but we sat there preferring the car to being prey on the side of the road. The driver was angry, slammed the door. He got in and flipped the car around and took a side street into the interior of town. He was driving fast and angry and then stopped abruptly in front of a dark house. He jumped out and went in, and we still weren't sure how safe this was -- a dark road, two girls in a car. We clung to each other in the silence and then started talking options.

The driver came back and did his crazy drive-thru back to the station. We called Caleb to get his advice and it was nice to hear a calm, reassuring voice on the other end. He said to find a way out of our situation, we hung up with a promise to call later when wWe got out and walked up to what looked like a restaurant with a woman sitting in front. We asked her where we were, how far it was to Nouakchott, if there was someplace we could stay. We got the answers: Akjoujt. 230 km from NKT. Rooms could be rented here.

Just as we got back to the car to get our bags, the driver was adding more seats "C'est pour des enfants." It's for some children he said in French and we saw the women and the children who'd be joining our car. We were relieved to see more innocents and so we wouldn't be the only women. They all nodded their heads to Nouakschott? so we decided to take our chances and continue on. Another message to Caleb and Molly before heading into the night "We're still on our way."

I'll continue the rest tomorrow.

Desert Unleashed

2006-04-27T11:51:00.000Z

Day 7: Going further

2006-04-26T19:59:00.000Z

In a whisper the day before, as I was gulping down a meal of rice and carrots and specks of sand, Cheikh the patron of our auberge spoke about arranging a guide to take us into the desert with camels. I told him that's why we're here. We arranged a price using for our bargaining chip that we were nearly out of ouguiyas and with no way nearby to change money. We made our plans to leave at dawn.

The next morning our guide arrived with our saddled camels. We walked first to the outskirts of Chinguitti. It was a slow start with the sun already hot and trying to reign in my excitement and marathon my energy. When got far enough, we mounted our camels and set off into the indisinguishable distance.

The farther out we got I realized the weight of what it is to be engulfed, to circle and see only dunes, to breathe and smell nothing, to marvel at the sands changing colors and the few scrappy trees. I gave myself up to one more mass of nature hoping only I'd come out at the end maangi fii the blankets of sand, the non-stopping heat, the wind whipping at our feet covering our tracks, all roads lead in and none lead out. Every detail was highlighted to micro -- the indent made by the trail of our prints, the falling sand off the tip of a dune, the way the wind whipped and layered the earth in even aligned paths of sandy color and design. I could stare at a single point in the distance as we padded towards it on our camelbacks and to never arrive at it, the distance seemed always to be in the same spot -- far away. We were moving without moving. But we must have eventually got somewhere, because by day's end we did make it: A date oasis surrounded by a small village of four families.

We were greeted by women, a deep well of cold water, and a cluster of tall and shady trees. The place exuded coolness that only a place a day's journey from anywhere could in the middle of an infinite ton of hot sand. The smell was watery, soil-fied, a greenhouse. I descended with the strongest yearning for a cold bottle of Fanta almost physically hurting Tsilat by voicing my desire. It'd been a hot journey and long and our water was warm enough to seep tea. When one of the veiled Hassinya women came towards us carrying a bucket, she lifted the lid to four cans of Coca bobbing in a pool of cool water. Even if I could have spoken to her, I don't know what I would have said. She just edged it towards us and I gasped at the feel of Coke in my throat.

I disappeared to watch the sunset. Atop a dune, I buried my legs in the sand -- cold if I reached way down. The quiet's like coming outside at night after a snowstorm in South Dakota where there's only calm, the roads not yet plowed, the snow sits where it lands and nature has the upperhand until morning when people wake and sidewalks are shoveled and roads are tracked by traffic. I let a lot go at that moment spreading my Dakar-braided head on the mat of sand staring at the darkening sky and feeling the desert.

Chinguitti: A city of sand

2006-04-25T14:57:00.000Z

"The sand closes in on you in Chinguitti. An ongoing project by the European Union to haul sand out of the streets back into the desert leaves less than before, but I still feel it casacading in. The roads are soft, fine desert sand. Houses are made of sand/water combination. I'm buried in a sand castle here and it's easy to feel like time is in the middle between ending and beginning and I'm being pushed through the wings of an hourglass spat out and turned into rosy-colored mud." - Journal entry

We padded around the city in the late afternoon just as the sun was setting. It was much too hot to come out of our tents during the mid-day sun -- finally we were getting some real desert heat. It's a city with some running water, electricity only between the hours of 8 and 10 p.m., and a couple of phone lines. However sparse, it houses one of the largest collections of manuscripts written by the Prophet Mohammed in the 600s (supposedly since this is all somewhat debatable). It's considered the seventh holy city of Islam -- but as one peace corps volunteer put it: what's the eighth city?

It felt quaint as desert towns go. The sandy walls of the hundreds-years-old buildings still tweeter with the old tale that Chinguitti was once located a little farther to the north but it was buried in sand and so another city had to be re-started here. Our volunteer told us of prejudice he faced for not being Muslim -- some people in the city refusing to talk to him making it seem that perhaps sand is not Chinguitti's only enemy, but maybe the outside world. I'd heard the farther north you get in Mauritania the more devout the Muslims and the closer you get to Senegal the more "Christian" sarcastically speaking since Senegal is at least 95 percent Muslim, it's just some consider the form of Islam here diluted.

But we were two girls smoothed with travel intent that our path would take us where we wanted to go. The afternoon sun went setting and we trodded through the thick, heavy sand like it was a dance. We found a baayfall Senegalese vendor named Boubacar selling trinkets he offered to make us a good cup of homebrewed ataya (tea) instead of that weak sh*t they make here in Mauritania. We brazeningly said goodbye laughing that we were off to the desert tomorrow morning and he asked at the heart of our laughter: "What desert? This is the desert." Desert, yes, but we must get farther out and my faced turned to serious, out there I point to the now-not-so distant dunes -- we're going there.

The view of the road outside our camp.

The tents where we slept.

A thousand and one nights sign.

One of those old crumbling sand buildings.

Tsilat and Jeff (peace corps) up ahead.

The mosque and the setting sun.

The last picture I took before the sun set and it got too dark.

Day 6: I saw the sunrise over the Sahara

2006-04-20T17:29:00.000Z

After getting dropped off in the middle of the desert sometime in the early morning my contacts dried to my eyes from sleep and my head whirrling from the stillness, we piled into a small Toyota truck and took off slowly down a path through the open space. The other people in the truck were a Mauritanian businessman who spoke French, Arabic, and English and his manservant; two French tourists (a man and a woman); and in the bed of the truck seven or so Senegalese/Mauritanian men riding on top the luggage. I remember being squeezed into a back seat with three others and looking out the window to see only the hole of the headlights in front of us and thinking this is the craziest thing I've ever done I couldn't even have found myself on the map at that moment much less made my way to the next city on my own. And then I fell asleep my head bobbing from the jostle of the road. I dreamed about taking this trip with my brother, and I woke up to the now-familiar sound of flapping rubber. We stopped and a guy motioned for me to get out of the car -- I'd been so comfortable in my cacoon that I wasn't quite sure how to descend. In the time it took to change the tire, the sun slowly started to wake up, to se reveiller. The muslims took out their prayer mats and started praying towards that distant light and I slowly dropped to the ground. It's amazing how the two are so distinctly separate -- sky and land -- at this moment. I know surprise has been expressed about how this could happen every single day-- and we notice it not. It was a miracle to me to be at this place at this time watching the light and those men pray towards it. Again I would have become one of them, just to be sure of something, just to give myself to something, just to say thanks, just so I wouldn't have fight not knowing.

When were dropped in the city of Atar sometime around 8 in the morning. The taxi took as to a small auberge and we used their bathrooms to wash and then we sat down for breakfast with the French couple. They wanted to bargain for a taxi to take us around the various oasis in the area and wondered if we'd go along. The price seemed reasonable but it would have been two days non-stop travel, and we didn't want that, so we backed out and decided to take a taxi brousse to Chinguitti, the city about an hour north of Atar where we could really see desert and play in the sand.

At this point, the landscape though desert-ified wasn't the sand dunes we were craving to set our eyes upon. As soon as we left Atar, I was surprised by the rockyness of the landscape, the tall-tall almost mountains and the yellow flowered fields. It was soon that we crossed out of this and into the sand.

Rocks as we left Atar for Chinguitti.

Market day in Atar.

Our taxi to Chinguitti.

In the middle of somewhere and nowhere and we find Mountain Dew in a can.

Men selling bread in Atar.

Day 5: A train in Africa

2006-04-18T18:14:00.000Z

The train coming in.

The writing of the next leg of this journey is either going to come spilling out or it's going to stay snuggly tucked inside somewhere. "Day 5" starts the part of the trip that was the best, the most telling: We'd gotten used to motion, bumping from one destination to another, gotten used to one another -- when to talk, when not to, when you need a tissue, when I do. In essence, how to live in a state of travel together.

We waited for the afternoon train at the Nouadhibou Gare. I was trying to get through Out of Africa but finding it hard to reconcile my experiences with hers and preferring my own landscape I put the book away. It was windy and a little hot. We were surrounded by white sand and people spreading their luggage out in circles around them. I watched a little baby boy teeter around barefoot crumbling his bisquit down his shirt, simultaneously watched and ignored by his family. I didn't know at the time but the same baby would travel crying with us all the way to Chinguitti in the far north, to where we would finally spot the "official" desert we were looking for.

Women selling goods while we waiting for the train at the station.

Tea guy at train station.

The train only comes once a day. It's not even a passenger train, but one for iron ore hauling the mineral from the mines in the north to the port here in Nouadhibou. So we were riding in a just-emptied train, which probably affected the people more who were riding in the back. You see, you can ride for free in the cars carrying the iron ore or you can pay the 2,500 ouigya (somewhere between $5 and $10 I don't remember the conversion) like we did and ride in the sole passenger car. We'd heard stories about the coldness of the ride, how it's dirty, uncomfortable, something no one regrets doing but will never do it again. We were getting in with the least and the most of expectations.

It's a 2 km long train, supposedly the longest iron ore train in the world.

When the train arrived, everyone rushed to mount the small, high stairs into the car. Because that's what people do here (something I've seen in Senegal) rush into transportation as if you have no hope for another, which we didn't in this case. The nicest most genial person turns to a fight-for-a-seat survival skill and in Mauritania that means if your ass is less than five feet wide (mother you don't even know) you're not only pushed to the back of the line, but you will be squashed even if somehow you think you're tough and know a thing or two (like me) and make a dive for it.

The train was a relic of former glory complete with signs posted on the window in three languages not to throw anything out the window (which we did), bathroom signs telling not to smoke (which we did), lights that used to be at every seat and but lighting was now replaced by a candle rigged into a plastic water bottle tied with yarn hanging from the ceiling. What was once, I imagined, sparkling and red was now so gray and dirt clogged that my nails and hands told only half the story of dirt. I wouldn't have traded it for anything.

The same women who butted us off the stairs moments before turned out to be our cabin-mates. Once on, we quickly made for a cabine with women knowing we could find comaraderie (and snacks) and wanting to avoid sitting scooted up next to a sketchy male for 12 hours. In this choice, started our voyage of wonder not once lifting our books or even talking to each other, we sat amazed by these women and the world they created -- world within in a world. A train in Africa. Mauritania. The Sahara Desert. Tsilat's first time riding in a train. Our little cabine seating a young girl maybe three years old, an adolescent boy, and three older, bigger women, mothers for certain possibly grandmothers, capable, strong, submisively veiled head-to-toe, but secretly liberated in their talk, their laughter, their henna-tatooed hands, their seductive dance qu'elles ont montré pour nous as the light got darker and our train headed passively into it. We, too, became one of their command, one of their daughters, handing us food, removing our shoes for us, curling our legs under, touching our hair, smiling and scolding. We did this all without words speaking but not needing words for we had another language: That of women. Of caring, of mothering, of soothing, of protecting.

One of our ladies preparing tea from a gas burner she smuggled in. It only tipped once.

The leader of the pack.

Daughter.

Man cooking onions for sandwiches.

When I needed stretching I sat up and popped my head out the window and watched the small villages, herds of camels, sand dunes, and nothingness come my way, pass, and be gone. I was so wrapped up in it, I didn't need sleep, nor a future, nor a past. My heart just beat with the movement of that train. We stopped at sunrise so the men could pray. I yearned to be one of them. The peacefulness of it. I was worshipping this journey, this land, knowing thyself, and getting called back to our cabine to take la troiséme (third and last round of tea). We stopped two other times to drop passengers off to unknown destinations in the desert. There was no announcement just suddenly motion would cease and we all looked up confused like the world had stop twirling on its axis. We fell asleep sometime in the middle of all laying and propped up against each other limb upon limb and head. Jolted around 3 a.m. to our ladies waking to ask someone in the hall where we were "Choum" was the whisper and we were pushed out into the night bags and butts landing flop in the sand. And it was over. It'd been 13 hours, but somehow I couldn't help feeling I'd wanted it to last forever the sleep, the ride, the present statement, our ladies, our cabine.

The story of Nouadhibou is a way to get to Europe

2006-04-07T16:36:00.000Z

Nouadhibou beach -- small peninsula off Mauritania. Half its width shared with the Western Sahara.

If anyone ever wonders how bad it is in Africa, just see what people are doing to get out. The pregnant mother who takes to the sea to get to La Reunion off the east coast of Africa just so she can have her baby somewhere that's French. A Senegalese who travels to Morroco in an attempt, with thousands of others, to storm the fence that serves as the border with Spain. The Guinean who journeys one taxi after another through his own country, through Gambia, Senegal, Mauritania and finally to Nouadhibou where he looks twice at a boat and the sliver of place where he'd be put, stares out at the ocean and the $600 it would cost him to slip into a small opening of a chance at a better life. The travel is three days, maybe four, the boat is small and questionable, hundreds of others are pushing on to it, maybe there will be enough fuel, maybe enough water, maybe the coast guards won't catch them, maybe the boat won't go down in the sea. And even then, it only brings him to the Canary Islands, a property of Spain, but not Spain itself. Maybe it's better to try for something better than whiling your life away to nothing. Maybe if you make it, you can send money home to your family and that minimum wage job, for example, in America can go a long way to feeding someone in Africa. And that's the chorus.

A place where desert meets ocean.

Look around you, if you don't see African faces in your neighborhood, you will. If you want to continue to ignore the drought, the desertification, the poverty, the wars, the corruption of Africa, it will come to you, smack in the face through riots in Paris or the immigrants landing wide-eyed and sweat-stained in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I'm only saying it because it hurts to know if the going gets tough I can fly outta here anytime I want, but my good friends living here, can't. Together we sit on the beach staring out at the ocean watching the planes fly in close and low -- I know what it feels like to be on one o' them, I know where it takes me, but do you? I can love this place and these people, but I can never really invite them chez moi. And yet I stutter as I weigh what I'll do in the future tip toeing between finding work at home, mooching off my family for a few months, staying in Senegal, or finding another reason to take me overseas. I may not be an American who likes Big Macs and Cokes, but I am one who constantly revels in the choices, and yet my friends here can't even find one single job. But coming where I come from means I will always find work, I will always go to school, always have money and food and a place to live. It makes you wonder how to define a human right. The right to change my mind ten thousand times?

Taking in the spray of the ocean.

And that's what Nouadhibou did to me. Made me feel and question and instead of marveling at why someone would be crazy enough to take a three-day pirogue ride into the ocean, I wondered what's pushing someone to even consider it. But even as I write of the "conditions of Africa" I chide myself because there is so much good here and even in its direness, there are the people who smile and greet you like no other day is a comin' and businesses that succeed and people who make it. I guess there's no real way to grasp the whole picture and I'm flailing only to understand a small part of it, my part in it.

Day 4: gnarled twists of fate

2006-04-03T11:07:00.000Z

We slowly prepared ourselves for a day of travel -- this time, north to the desert. Knowing water and showers would be scarce, we took our time with the precious drops of hot water and toiletries and clean shirts. We got our instructions on where to go and who and how, hugged Molly good bye promising to see her in a few days, walked to the street and hailed a taxi. And this is when we had a strange turn of luck...

The other thing about taxis in Nouakchott besides being Mercedes is most of them are driven by Senegalese who come here looking for work. I greeted him in Wolof and asked him to take us to the Garage Atar, where we'd get the cars to Atar, the city in the far north that's the setting-out point for most desert voyages. We got to the garage and a gendarme (police man) approached our car, the driver negotiated our price with him, we were showed our taxi, paid and quickly left town. After we'd been in the car for awhile I started talking to the Senegalese guy next to me, something that wasn't too difficult since we were practically ear-to-ear and I was half sitting on his lap asking myself how I could get this close and personal to a men I hadn't yet met (after we'd left the garage we'd pulled over to squeeze one big-butted Mauritanian woman into the backseat of our car -- making us four in one standard size backseat for three). I asked him what he was doing in Atar and he said he was going to Nouadhibou to visit his family. It dawned on me a little then and I wondered why we were going towards Nouadhibou, a city on the coast, far from the desert. I saw signs on the road counting down the kilometers to Nouadhibou and still I thought eventually we'd veer off for Atar, that somehow the road would split and this guy would get out and go one way while we went the other. When three hours later we started driving alongside the ocean, I knew we weren't going to be spending the night in the desert, so I mentioned it to Tsilat, "I think we're going to that city where Mark lives." Mark being a peace corps volunteer we'd met in Dakar and "that city where he lives" being Nouadhibou which I hadn't yet learned to prounounce. Somehow the taxi driver had negotiated us a ticket to Nouadhibou and not to Atar. So much for speaking Wolof to taximen.

Driving in cars and chewing on toothbrush sticks, me and Tsilat ye.

Since this is where we were, we decided to make the best of it and try to track down Mark. We took a cab into town, found a chill place to hang out and get some food, read our travel book about Nouadibou, tried calling Mark but he didn't answer. We checked in to a tiny auberge -- one narrow room, two beds on the floor. You could rent a mat in the tent if you wanted or even the old car in the courtyard to sleep in, but we opted for the room, as yet our skin hadn't constricted tight around traveling rough (that would come later), still valuing showers in the morning, clean clothes every day, and a semblance of a room over our heads -- at least one held up by a door that locks.

Checking out the rooms.

The courtyard of our auberge.

It was strolling around the streets of Nouadibou that we came into our own. It's a city on a narrow peninusula into the ocean with half of the peninsula being the territory of the Western Sahara (or Morocco however you look at it). Largely unpestered we wondered aimlessly through neighborhoods and markets looking into people's homes, shops, and anybody's business. That's the way it is here (here as in the Africa I've seen), everything that is done is done for the world to see. It's only the rich and the toubabs with something to hide or something to show who lodge themselves behind walls and guards and locked gates. I was surprised we weren't followed. In Senegal, I can't step out of the house without acquiring an admirer or two, especially when I venture into tourist places, men wanting to be my guide, to sell me a drum or a wooden statue a beaded necklace an African mask, and always to me marier. I was surprised by the busy-ness, the kids whizzing by on bikes chasing each other not giving us a moment's pause. In America, you see kids on bikes. In Senegal, jamais never. And nearly everwhere I looked -- shacks, stores, street corners -- people were clustered around a boiling pot of tea -- and we were offered it at every turn and we sipped it and we talked and it was polite and cordial and not whacking you in the face the way Dakar has a way of doing. Again, I was feeling the calm.

Capturing the sunset through this deserted bus window.

A stack of Maurtania men's boubous in a shop during our walk.

We finally reached Mark, who'd been having problems with his cell service, by calling another peace corps girl who'd been in his apartment before him and led us phone-to-door and it was warmth and smiles to see someone familiar. Mark entered peace corps late in his life compared to most of the bitties who prefer to find themselves straight out of college fleeing from desk jobs and unadventure. Mark was in business in Boston and still has that sense about him even all the way over here. He speaks French with his Boston accent and has a calm capable manner, always respectfully hearing someone out. He teaches English to classrooms of high school students and night classes to adults, which as we walked the streets with him, constantly brought on greetings by kids smiling to clamor out their how are yous.

Crates of carrots and tomatoes being sold here.

Nouadhibou from Mark's apartment.

Day 3: Riding in Mercedes

2006-03-30T16:30:00.000Z

The next morning I quickly understood what Dan meant by never having privacy at his house when six girls came trumping in from the bush tossing their dusty bags on the floor, on the table, on the chairs. They chattered away opening up the fridge, taking down packages of cereal, mixing bowls of millet and our intimate group of four where we’d gotten so used to each other in only one quiet evening—the way you start to feel you're the only ones in the world—sat somewhat stunned at the kitchen table our pancakes thereafter untouched. Somehow the welcoming warm was destroyed and we felt out of place—it was no longer our space. Tsilat and I quickly showered and gathered our things, and accompanied by Dan we headed to the gare to find a taxi to Nouakchott, the capital.

The gare in Rosso probably takes its cues from Senegal since upon arrival we were bombarded, even with Dan knowing his way around, by people trying to hound our white faces into a car. We would later learn that the farther you get from the border (with Senegal that is) the more straightforward and calm—almost professional—it becomes to get a taxi to the next city. We paid our ticket and hung out under a tree until the taxi filled, then quickly shepherded into a car, stuffed snuggly with four people into a three-seater backseat, we were off.

There are a lot of Mercedes in Mauritania, and it doesn’t mean you’re rich if you drive one, because most of them are in pretty tough shape. When I asked around about the Mercedes Phenomenon, no one really knew for sure except that maybe at one time there was a large shipment of them coming in and the local mechanics learned how to fix them and there were parts available and somehow they just held out. So it is most of the city taxis in Nouakchott and when you go to the garage to get a bush taxi if you want a good car, you always ask for a Mercedes. THESE cars remind me of my mother’s philosophy about cars which is, you buy old sturdy cars (used of course), drive the shit out of them until they just plumb have no choice but to die, and even then you get my brother, my step dad, or the sketch-mechanic with all the cars in his front yard to take a look at it and see what he can jimmyrig to get it going again (for the cheapest possible price possible).

Cars on the Nouadibou street.

Nouakchott, though the capital and presumed happening, has a deserted feeling partly from all the dust and sand blowing in for miles to leave the desert and be jetted out into the ocean. Sitting on the ocean, the city makes no pretense of being a beach town. You can head to the fish market and see men coming in with the day’s catch but that’s about it, no curving corniche or seafront real state. It's a city traditionally founded by nomads--those used to the unlimited space of the desert and the terrain of the sub-sahara. So though a small city, it spread itself out and takes awhile to get from one end to the other.

We arrived and were immediately embraced in more peace corps hospitality with Molly, a good friend of a good friend of mine, taking us in and housing us in her posh (posh for around here – even has hot water) apartment. We spread ourselves out on her bedded-down futons eyeing each other about, playing the dance of getting-to-know-you and waiting for the time when we can know each other better and ask the tougher and infinitely-more interesting questions about who do you love and where, when it hurts and why, and letting down the guard that let’s us laugh without pretenses. We got there with her, this place of knowing, but more so the second time around; we spent our last two days in Mauritania with Molly, but only after we’d been seasoned with travel apres qu' on a fait le tour and we fell into her arms after a scary overnight taxi ride. But this time, this first time, we only let go of our histories, how we’ve come to be, where we go or not go from here.

Nouakshott garage before we left.

We ate at The Sahara, a Lebanese restaurant we would crave later in the desert (once we were really in The Sahara) half-eating sand in every morsel and drink, but for the moment we ordered fatah (battered and fried dough with meat and onion inside) and the babel ghanoug (hummos made with eggplant) and the flat Lebanese cheese pizza. We strolled home in the dark wrapped in the warmth of our conversation and a good dinner sitting contentedly in our stomachs, but it was when we started asking about religion and politics and sharia law that Molly stopped us looking around saying it would be better to talk about this later fearing our voices would carry, even in our English. And it was the jolt that we’re in a country not our own, a country where it’s illegal to be Christian, Jewish, Hindu, or frankly anything but Muslim. There’s something severe in that to our pampered AmericanDreamFreedomofReligionFreedomtoChooseWhatYouBelieve ears, but you’re not normally accosted with it if you’re a visitor to Mauritania, so laisse tomber I’ll leave the rest for another day.

We opened the doors to Molly’s roof climbing the dark stairs resting on her terrace examining Nouakchott in the night. I realized I’d barely taken any pictures and we were already leaving for our next city in the morning. But we buried our heads in the pillows and left our travels be for the moment.

Tsilat riding the chariot.

Molly.

Wearing Molly's sunglasses.

A word about our peace corps friends

2006-03-28T17:09:00.000Z

A few weeks ago Peace Corps West Africa descended on Dakar for a four-day weekend of softball, beer, hot dogs, and a little taste of the America we all get a yearning for being so far away from home. I purposely saddled up to the Mauritanians in hopes I could make some contacts for our trip. What I didn't expect was that I would like them so much and I ended up spending a good part of the weekend cheering them in softball, going out to dinner, dancing, and drinking. Once word got around that I was from South Dakota, I was immediately paired up with the only other South Dakotan in the group, Dan from Sioux Falls. Before he left Dakar, we exchanged emails and numbers and started texting even before I left for Mauritania. Zach, who is from a small town near Okoboji in Iowa, I met by coincidence when were laughing about some red neck, hick joke and he was like, "You MUST be from like Montana Sate University or something." And I was like, "Better yet, South Dakota State University." And he said, "No Way! Sioux Falls! I go to your mall!" It's not every day that you find someone who knows South Dakota much less the Sioux Empire Mall.

So the evening we all sat down to dinner, we couldn't help but recount the familiar--street names, places, midwestern mannerisms "how do you give directions in the midwest?", the way the old guys at the coffee shop talk about wheat prices, fields, weather. It was sad and funny and falling asleep that night I felt empty and full at the same time. It seems the more you try to fill the hole of stuff you miss with replicas of the real, the hole just gets bigger and deeper. It was a strange state to be in: homesick in Mauritania, eating Pad Thai, and talking about shopping at the Sioux Empire Mall.

Me, Zach, and Dan

Map so we know what we're talking about here

2006-03-28T12:39:00.000Z

Day 2: Crossing the frontière and eating Pad Thai in Rosso

2006-03-28T11:07:00.000Z

The border (frontière in French) between Mauritania and Senegal closes every day from 12 to 3 for the patrol to take their long lunch, pray, and drink tea. I've heard rumors--unconfirmed of course--that it's one of the only borders in the world that closes in the middle of the day for an extended period of time, but after knowing both of these countries it jives pretty accurately with the culture and the mentality (i.e. eating, taking tea, and praying are utmost).

After messaging with my peace corps friend Dan who was meeting us at the border and after fullfilling his request "to buy the cheapest bottle of vodka u can find" because alcohol is non-existent and illegal in Mauritania, we took an early lunch, gathered our bags, and headed to the gare to find a sept place to the border. We found a car that was going to Rosso, but it only had one spot left. Thankfully, everyone moved over and we successfully stuffed nine people into our our sept place (meaning seven spots), including a little girl on her mother's lap. And we we're off... well not quite... We stopped to fill gas, air the tires, and then when the driver forgot his change from the gas station man we had to turn around and go back all packed one on top of the other in the rising temp of the afternoon heat. Welcome to transport in Senegal.

Our neuf place to the border and the back of Tsilat's head.

Getting off at the river we made our way through the usual hassle of men trying to help us, "My sister, let me show you the way. You have to change your money here." They often think up schemes to get the frazzled and unknowing traveler to part with money or possessions. A Senegalese friend even told me of the first time he crossed the border and he believed the guys telling him it was already closed and that he needed to stay in their house. He found out later he could have crossed the river with a pirogue and stayed for free on the other side until morning. Even when you know where you're going and tell them you don't need help, they still swarm and if you utter any unkind word, they accuse you of being racist or not a nice person.

On the ferry.

Anyway, we hopped on the ferry and once on the other side, we were met by Dan and Zach, both in the peace corps. They helped us negotiate getting our passports stamped and getting through the Mauritania border control. We changed money dollars for the Mauritanian currency, ouigya, then Dan proposed dinner, "Do you want Chinese stir fry or pad thai for dinner? I make the best Asian food in all of West Africa." These are two foods not normally found in my diet in Senegal so it was funny to come all the way to Mauritania to be faced with the challenge of deciding between these two dishes.

Dan cooking pancakes the next morning.

We bought our ingredients at the market near Dan's house hearing the evidence of our border crossing as French, Wolof, Pulaar, and Hassinya words were thrown out to accomplish the task of buying the kilos of vegetables, peanuts, and fruit needed for our dinner. The faces were still largely Senegalese, but we were starting to see the occasional Mauritanian boubou (traditional men's dress) and most of the women were slightly more veiled than those in Senegal. We still had many more miles to travel and much more to learn about this new country, but it was good to refresh and relax before we continued our journey.

The Rosso market.

Public transporation in Rosso: A chariot. It costs less than ten cents.

Day 1: Getting to Saint Louis

2006-03-27T16:11:00.000Z

The first leg of our trip was tame compared to all the rest -- but we had to start somewhere, right? The morning before we left I asked Tsilat if she'd ever traveled outside of Dakar with public transportation. Probably something we should have covered before, but it's evidence on just how little we did to prepare. Somehow, we'd both managed to be the only students in our program to never take the station wagons, or sept places, that serve as the public transport for getting people to and fro cities in Senegal. We arrived at the Gare Routiere, Dakar's Grand Central Station, not at the bonne heure (early hour) like we probably should have, but around 11 in the morning hoping to find a car to Saint Louis. I knew it would be rough getting through the crowds and the guys who always trail you trying to get you into some car or another, but there's something to be said about learning to keep your cool and having fun with it. And that's just what we did.

Tsilat in our mini-bus.

A woman who rode with us.

One of the many vendors circling the waiting cars. You buy seats in a car and so if there are seven seats you have to wait until more passengers come along before departing.

A guy who was sitting in our car to make it look more full. You always try to find the cars that are the fullest since those are the ones that are leaving the soonest.

Saint Louis was deserted for Dakar as the capital sometime mid-colonial period. What's left is a quiet historic downtown, protected by UNESCO, with all the old French colonial architecture still in place. Aside from the trailing talibe (little beggar boys), it's a pleasant place to just walk the streets and imagine it really is in the past. It's about two hours from the border with Mauritania and about three hours from Dakar so we thought it would be a good jumping off point letting us get into the rhythm of traveling while we're still in Senegal and still in our comfort zone.

We stayed at the auberge of my host father's brother and had dinner with his nephew overlooking the bridge that interlinks the island of centre ville and the rest of Saint Louis. The city georgraphically is in any interesting position since it's the place where the Senegal River enters the Atlantic Ocean. The centre ville, where all the French lived and the part which is protected today, is on an island formed by a fork in the river.

Dakar was still fresh in our minds but its roar was diminishing with the calm of Saint Louis, however we still had yet to enter the desert, where the true silence would reign.

Back from Mauritania-land

2006-03-27T15:41:00.000Z

Getting back to Dakar early last week, we found the city'd been in rolling blackouts since we left. Electricity is still pretty scattered. Sometimes we have it in the evenings, sometimes the mornings, some places have it the entire day, but not the next. Apparently the power company and the government are in dispute about how much money is owed, and there are rumors of politicians skimming off the top, but no one knows for sure. But not having power made for a fitting return. After days traveling through the desert, it made it easier to deal with the bustle of Dakar and gave me a few extra days to recover before looking at my emails or the news.

Finally getting online today with my laptop, I want to start writing about my trip, but I'm not sure where to start. It was an incredible journey both in physical distance and in learning, so I'm going to try to post about it day-by-day. That way it gives me time to sort through it and gives you time to follow it piece-by-piece.

Dakar stadium food (and music and soccer)

2006-03-08T16:03:00.000Z

The other day we descended on the stade for a match of soccer and a long list of live music including Lauren Hill, Vivian NDour, Youssou NDour, Alpha Blondie, Angelique Kidjo. It was a chance to see some of the biggest stars in Africa and see them all at once. I went with two friends and it was late in the day and we'd just finished school, so we almost literally ate our way to the stade, carving a little path from Sacre Coeur 3 just about to Yoff leaving behind orange peels, peanut shells, and sandwich droppings. Vendors were alongside the road in either direction anticipating the crowd coming in for the game. Children walking around with poles of plastic bags jangling with peanuts, women selling little muffin cakes, who Karolyn in all her tri-lingualness said to one woman after the exchange, "thank you very much!" and started walking away and only turned back when she realized all the women were laughing and said "jerejef, merci!" When we finally got to the first inner ring of the stadium we found rows and rows of women selling sandwiches stuffed with viande (lamb meat usually), fried onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, fries and lettuce. It was only after we'd consumed everything that we patted our stomachs and started for the stairs leading up to the seating.

And because even getting a seat at a game is an adventure in this land, we circled the stadium a few times before finally finding the right door (apparently we'd come through the slums and we'd had VIP tickets). But in our walk, we saw men who'd laid down their prayer mats and we're praying along side little boys peeing into the corner while the toilet was only a few feet away. It was almost one of those things you walk by until you realize just how strange it is.

The concert was incredible and I was jivin' like never before. Good reggae by Alpha Blondie, who I only recently heard. It was awesome to finally see Angelique Kidjo, who I discovered this summer going through the Africa section at the Plymouth library. And just good to be with friends, be in a crowd of thousands, take pictures, hear some good music, dance crazy, and have all the hype and anticipation and lights of seeing some good acts live.

Leaving for Mauritania tomorrow. I'll be on with pictures and stories in a couple of weeks. Much love!

Karolyn, also known as Fatou. She's the most Senegalese of all of us, but hails from Wisconsin.

Just as the concert was starting.

On the ground, Tsilat and Kate lifting me up to take pictures.

During the game that I unfortunately saw very little of seeing as I was too busy eating.

Concert from the ground.

Je me suis tressé -- Yes, I have braids.

2006-03-06T15:00:00.000Z

The white person who comes to Africa must do three things: wear an oversized necklace either made of "natural" wood pieces or thick gaudy beads, buy a bag made with African fabric, and get her hair braided. Now you can go back to wherever you come from--Europe, France, US--and tell everybody in appropriate tones "I've been to Africa." But as a resident toubab I feel some level of superiority over those people who come for a week, stay at a nice hotel in centre ville, visit the few tourist sites, and go home. Cushy, plush, no homesickness, no sickness whatsoever because they're eating in restaurants that cook imitation French food, and they're paying people to cater to their every Western need. They talk to a few vendors, a taxi driver, and feel like they "saw" Senegal. I know I need to work on my snubbery and I am, but it explains why I had--up until this point--not gotten my hair braided. This is no easy task in Senegal especially having long blondish hair and especially living in a salon de coiffeur all last semester.

So, why now? The timing seemed right since I'm almost out of shampoo and you can get your hair braided and it'll stay in for four or five weeks, during which time you don't wash it. Plus, I'm going to Mauritania (country directly to the north of Senegal) next week and I wanted something low maintenance (I don't want to spending a lot of time primping while I'm in the desert). And what dawned on me yesterday as I was promenading to the store and being inundated with attention (more than usual) is that I wanted to wait until I could at least dole out a few Wolof words, because people's first reaction is to say, "You're a true Sengalese now!" I don't take this as lightly as they like to hand it out so my small repertoire of Wolof helps me feel like I'm more deserving of being Senegalese now.

I spent the day in my host mother's salon with two or more people constantly at my head. My hair was stretched and pulled and picked and burned and cut and waxed and meshed and oiled and sprayed and I wasn't let loose for nearly six hours, except for the ten minutes I spent digging into a big bowl of ceebujen with the other hair stylists. And as I walked out to find the sun setting, the same security guards and people standing in the street almost nearly forgot to greet me in their suprise at the same? no, different toubab? as I came trudging around the corner making my way home to bed to rest this big head of hair that had been beyond coiffed.

In French, they say "je me suis tressé" as in "I got my hair braided," but translated literally it would be more like "I've been braided" and that's sort of how I feel especially seeing as how my head hurt for a good 24 hours afterwards (well the all-night dancing and drinking probably didn't help either). Also, a note to the purists, I'm not sure if "tresser" is actually a French verbe or if the Senegalese just use it in this context.

Climbing stuff

2006-02-28T18:49:00.000Z

I don’t know what it is that makes us want to climb to high places, maybe it’s the way we seem to want to locate ourselves within a locale, to find out where we fit in the geography of a place. So it came to be that I was drawn to the top of one of Dakar's downtown hotels on a regular day on my way to my new stage (internship) at the AP. Downtown Dakar is definitely a place I avoided last semester simply put I couldn't handle the push of the crowds. I knew there was a lot to be had en ville but I managed to find ways to avoid going usually by finding a vendor closer by or asking someone else to pick me up something. Now with my thrice-weekly trek au mon travail (job) I'm becoming more familiar with its workings, the layout, the wares of vendors, the main forms of public transpo (you can take the number 10 bus from Fann, the white car rapides from Sacre Coeur 3, or the blue bus 7 or Ligne 9 on the white bus from Ouakam). Giving myself a rest, I escaped into the elevator and before I knew it I was 16 floors up with only buildings and sea, if I wanted. I wasn't the first to discover the top of Hotel Independence and I can only say je veux te remercier for the secret. Finding tranquil places in Dakar is no easy task, especially in the thick of downtown, but it's that calming quiet you get, that feeling of being above it all, of just seeing the foggy bustle, but not having to be apart of it--not just yet anyway--a few more moments propped against the sidewall staring at the train tracks to Mali, the ocean, horizon of buildings, the people jiving and haggling down below. And then taking one deep breath and plunging into it again.

Seaside for the weekend

2006-02-14T17:46:00.000Z

Spent the weekend by the sea making the most of doing nothing. I found a chair facing the ocean, put my feet up on top the low rock wall. Wrapped in blankets, I just let myself drift. I finished two books and wrote some letters, and didn't think about Dakar or about home. Sleeping in the night, my window faced the sea and I felt like I was curled up right next to the tide hearing it pass it's way to the shore and back. After lunch one day, a friend and I walked as far as we could down the beach letting the wind take our words. We sat on the rocks and recounted what it was like to love for the first time, the names of people in our family, childhood nicknames, the pain of losing someone, trying to make good in our relationships with our mothers (love you, mom), and just letting ourselves feel like today is all we have.

I'm starting to feel how living here can be a balance, one ever-so difficult to achieve, but one in which I'm slowly learning -- sleeping on it from one day to the next coming up strong making that walk to school and that same walk back and no longer getting sick from the water or the food, relying on my instincts again, seeing the familiar faces of my family each night at dinner and pulling them close bit by bit. Walking the streets of Mermoz and feeling like it's old turf, turning the corner to run into someone I know, going back to visit old families and as little as it is, feeling important to them at just the right moment. Realizing what it means to learn from someone even though you might not be able take them with you journey-by-journey or be able to relate par-for-par, but that you can sweep pieces of their experience into your own and live by it. And I thank the Alchemist for giving it a term, and so it is, in my book too, The Universal Language.

The soundtrack for a morning walk to school

2006-02-09T15:17:00.000Z

Each morning my day is set by the pace in which I take that half-hour walk to school. I step out of the calm and cool of my host family's house with a stomach full of nescafe--now taken with three clumps of sugar--and baguette bread spoon-smeared with bissap jam and butter. It seems like it all gets resolved there in that dance and game of chance I play dodging dump trucks exiting the trash dump; escaping leering but genial men who just want to faire ma connaissance (otherwise known as 'get to know me' which is more complicated than it sounds); skipping over holes in the sidewalk; waving away slowing taxis who seem to have a toubab-radar on the top of their yellow and black cruisers; passing horizontal rows of women carrying water buckets on their heads and babies on their back. Then I cut through the rich, quieter toubab residences assalem malekum-ing the Senegalese security guards, drivers, and human car washers with their big square sponges and bright blue buckets. Finally exiting out onto Rue de Ouakam to meet all the traffic heading into downtown Dakar. A dash across the street because no one's going to wave you across and the traffic's not slow enough to weave through. Slow down as I hit the thick sand on that side of the road feeling my sandals fill up with rocks and granules ruining that morning-shower just-clean feeling. Say "bonjour" to the random guys making crafts who somehow know my name--or just guessed it? And finally round the corner into the guarded, gated, Suffolk University parking lot. And somehow the walk never feels ordinary.

Photos courtesy of my brother, who had the foresight to take them since sometimes you forget to take photos of the most obvious things. Though I didn't ask if I can use them (Timmy is it okay?)

The intersection by my house. The buildings in the background are the start of my neighborhood, Sacre Coeur 3.

Road in front of my old family's house.

Suffolk University campus where I take most of my classes. Me and Mike just chillin'.

Astou's stand. A haven all of us have come to cherish: ultimate omelet sandwiches, nescafe between classes, and morning greetings "Naka suba si?" Tsilat, my new roomate, is sitting next to me. Plus, random Suffolk students.

Watching "football" -- Senegalese style

2006-02-03T17:23:00.000Z

Just got back from watching the Senegal game in the student center with a bunch of us jostling for place to see the tele hanging out doorways and windows, lopping over one another, standing on tables and chairs, cheering and jeering, and above all else--arguing. The other times I've caught the game were either in the street with a bunch of people huddled around a television stretched by the wire into the street or in my host mother's hair salon watching with a bunch of women who were just as serious about the game as they were about woooing at the players. But this time it was different -- a mixed crowd of African students from all over. If they weren't actually themselves from Guinea, they were definitely free to choose who they thought was the better team. From the other places I've watched the soccer (le football) match, there's rarely ever a person contre (against) Senegal, but when people asked you what team (equipe) you were for, it wasn't a joke like "Of course I'm for Senegal -- Who else?" today they we're actually drawing lines. I walked in not realizing this and feeling slightly guilty: From the beginning I've only been a Senegal fan by default (I'm here aren't I?). Senegal wasn't expected to win. And pulling aside a few fans they quietly and with a defeatist shrug said Guinea's the better team. I watched a few of these walk out during half time and come back only later when Sengal started scoring. But not to give Senegal's fans a bad name, they were a few, the true Lions (les vrais), sticking by their team. One Sengalese woman yelled at a Burkinabe talking smack, "You're in our country and you can't even support our team!" But later it was the Guinean fans rightly perturbed sitting quietly in the corner hands between their legs staring unhappily while the rest of the room burst into squeals and yells 'cause Senegal won the game -- somehow. Scoring mostly by chance and luck and pure foolishness, but they did it. I guess I chose the right equipe.

Winter in Dakar

2006-02-01T15:26:00.000Z

To anyone back home winter here is laughable. I have a weather flasher that reminds me daily that the weather here is warmer by plusiers (many) degrees than it is la-bas (in South Dakota), so I'm not oblivous to it. When you'all have ice and snow alerts, we have some wind and a whoppin' 70 degrees. But that doesn't change the fact: I'm damn cold. My new host family looks at me and astonishingly says, "But you're from South Dakota!?" They once had a student from Minnesota who apparently went through the winter in their house with only one drap (sheet) and I currently have two though I wish I could ask for ten. Instead I've been sleeping in two pairs of pants, two shirts including my fleece, and a borrowed pair of men's sports socks (chaussettes is the word!).

It's not really cold, and I know this. I've gone through enough South Dakota winters to know real cold (freezing degrees chapping your face and that horrid north wind burrowing through every peice of layer you put on that morning), but perhaps it's all relative. However, probably the ultimate clincher is most homes in Dakar don't have a hot water tap (not to mention homes outside of Dakar that don't have running water at all). Those cold showers that used to be precious after a long hot day have now turned hellish and nearly unbearable -- I know a few people who went a good three days before getting under that cold faucet.

Part of it is just an expectation that it's supposed to be HOT here like the previous four months. But also people here I'm finding don't know how to live with the cold like on a 70-degree day we're all asking each other, "How's the cold?" and responding with shakes and moans and "burrrrrs" at the same time as I can see the guys back home say, "spring's a-coming" at 40 degrees.

Back and trying to make sense of it all

2006-01-27T14:54:00.000Z

I got back to Dakar late Tuesday night after spending a difficult seven hours in the Casablanca airport thinking about changes and feeling pain, feeling alone, chewing my nails while slowly getting a headache from sipping Moroccan beer and taking in too much second-hand cigarette smoke.

My comings and goings are always my greatest challenges. Leaving familiar places, saying good bye, starting over, and learning how to go at it alone without the comforts of home. And I find it gets more difficult as time goes on. I'm growing up, my loves get stronger and I'm learning to give more of myself and learning to take more in.

Being back in Dakar is familiar in the way that all homecomings are, but Senegal is a different place to me. I've had a lot of time to contemplate my time here and to also feel quite actutely the challenges that another semester here presents especially as most of my good American friends went home and I moved in with a new host family.

But there are things to look forward to and I think that's why I do it -- keep coming and going. I'm already feeling the trill of new beginnings, making semester to-do lists, discovering more Dakar secrets, and it all just keeps building on what I already know.

"I'm very very tired" and all its connotations

2006-01-22T15:51:00.000Z

Snuggling in for the train ride to Alexandria, I couldn't stop the TGV nostalgia. As we pulled out of the station into the Egyptian countryside, I looked out half expecting to see France's rolling green hills and the misty grayness in the winter clouds. I suppose it was the palm trees and the Arabic all around me that gave it away, but for a moment I smiled remembering the times discovering the train system from Dijon realizing it wouldn't take much and I could be to Paris or Marseille or even London.

Just another train stop: A couple sitting on a bench, mosque in the background.

Alexandria was a reprieve from Cairo. Though still a big city, the crowds were smaller and less demanding, the traffic was quieter, being used to the ocean air in Dakar I was happy to be near the sea -- the smell and the space of it. Armed with a map and a general sense of direction, we made our way walking through neighborhoods and shopping districts to the historical sites. Being one of only a handful of tourists made us more of an oddity than normal especially during our walking tour which from the looks we got most tourists probably prefer the taxi. We'd walk past groups of men in standing the street who would look up surprised and shout out after us "Welcome!" or little kids who would yell, "What's your name?!" or one man who's first English words he thought of upon seeing us, "I'm very very tired!"

A view. Negotiating the route to the catacombs.

I'm used to being stared at in Senegal. No matter how much wolof I use to try to blend in, I'm always very evidently a toubab. I've made children cry in my whiteness, I've scared men coming around the corner not expecting to see a toubab, and I've had women discreetly rub the skin on my arms and then turn and run away. But being a foreign woman in Egypt is challenging, and Alexandria brought that out even more -- fewer tourists, not in Cairo anymore. There were more looks, more advances, more staring prompting Jeremy to say after coming back from an outing alone, "I walked from here to the store without so much as a glance."

Just outside the entrance to Pompey's Pillar.

One night, after a full meal at the elegant French restaurant with the guy on piano reminding us of Herghada by playing Beatles' "Yesterday," we walked the Corniche with the other lovers... Egyptian guys in their faux designer jeans and jackets slicked back hair (yeah man) and women with skirts and headscarves slowly strolling the lit sidewalk or propped up against the side of the stone wall whispering softly and closely, almost touching. Even with religion's limitations, courting goes on.

The Corniche at night.

Pompey's Playground

2006-01-22T15:27:00.000Z

Though I know very little about museum displays, I once interviewed a museum director about an upcoming show at Sioux Falls' Old Courthouse Museum. Though she was still a youngun herself, only a recent graduate and only a few displays under her belt, she explained-me the care that goes into not only preserving items in a museum but also in thinking about the best way they should be displayed much in the same way a copy editor figures how to display the stories on the frontpage of the newspaper. It's a science as much as an art. I know some thought is given to such things in Egypt, but I think the country finds itself overwhelmed in antiquities that it just doesn't know what to do with it all. You can walk and stub your toe on a granite sphinx or you can turn the corner in the Egyptian Museum of Art in Cairo and find yourself staring at a pile of dust-covered statues.

In Alexandria, as we were climbing the hill to the catacombs, we came across Pompey's Pillar, an 82-foot Roman column spiking out of the earth. We diligently paid the 5 pounds (about a dollar) to get in. Hardly anyone was there save for a few Egyptian kids running about and I soon realized these were probably the kids of one of the workers, and Pompey's Pillar to us was in fact Pompey's Playground to them.

Alexandria's culture-ish

2006-01-22T13:36:00.000Z

We made it to the station with enough time to have the customary morning shot of Lipton served by men in striped shirts and bowties reminding me of something out of an old movie complete with the old-fashioned Grand Central train station. I tell Jeremy "Egypt's made me a tea drinker," because I've decided even Lipton is better than Africa's substitute for real coffee, the instant Nescafe. In Egypt, Lipton is probably a bigger brand than Coke. Lipton tablecloths fit snugly over the outside cafe tables while men smoke their shisha (or hookah), and the tea's posters adorn the small sidestreet makeshift grocery stores. Walking the streets you see guys carrying trays full of glass tea cups around to the security guards and police who can't leave their posts (almost every street corner is home to a permanent rotation of uniforms and guns; strangely commonplace until it suddenly started to seem excessive, but all apart of the country's martial law and its attempt to maintain a sense of security).

So we boarded the train for the two-hour trip to Alexandria, a city founded in 331 B.C. by Alexander the Great when he was 25 located on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. Even though the weather was nice--in the 60s--it is winter in Egypt (and cold by Dakar standards by the way). Compared to how it can get in the summer months, we pretty much had the place to ourselves -- cheap hotel prices, half-deserted tourist sites, and our walks on the corniche were fairly unhastled from vendors (only one little girl who was determined to sell Jeremy a package of tissues).

The Corniche at sundown.

It's a city that combines a lot of cultures. Egypt does that anyway, but it's even more evident in Alexandria since it was once part of the Roman Empire, once the capital of Graeco-Roman Egypt, and much later it was a landing stop for both the French and the British. Visiting the catacombs, a sort of underground tombyard started during the 1st century and used until about the 4th, it was striking to see the combination of art techniques used to carve the sculptures and pictures alongside the tombs (a practice often done in Ancient Egypt to commemorate someone's life). From the grapes and vines of Greek art to the Roman s-curve in a statue to wall drawings depicting the Egyptian gods producing this imaginary dialogue, "Well, boss, which do we use?" or maybe they were just trying to pay homage to all cultures of the time. One statue carved into the wall of the tomb was a combination of a dragon from Greek mythology and a python from Ancient Egyptian beliefs with the tour guide's limited English description, "It's nice. Nicer than nice. It's nicety nice."

This is the main tomb with the dragon/python carvings on each side of the entrance. Not my photo, but one I took from the internet because I wasn't quick enough to smuggle my own camera in.

The indirect sea view from our hotel room balcony. Not bad. The real treasure was the secret watching of people in the windows across, and taking breakfast with the sun peeking through the buildings barely keeping warm in the Mediterranean's version of winter air.

Fortress me

2006-01-18T20:22:00.000Z

We made our way zigzagging the ever-complicated Cairo street system. Going from firstclass, what's considered restaurant district because everyday people don't go there. Down through the immigrant potholed 'hood staring up at the highrises each floating in its own colored style, aging design, hanging clothes, and what poverty says about the hodgepodge of balcony belongings. The ride left little doubt that this is where the extras are kept--built for maybe 2 or 3 million Cairo is now housing over 25 million people (due to immigrants and rural exodus; the same problem exists in Dakar). But it was former glory we were after: The Citadel. Hardly the warring enemy or potential assasins, we had to hike the length of this fortress and its gates before we found the way in. Most of the former palace is in ruins, but mosques and buildings that now house museums still stand. But, really, most of the fun is just getting to the top and staring out over Cairo -- the faint and tiny pyramids on the horizon, government housing at our feet standing out in its whiteness, and the tiny Bab Zwella towers we climbed the other day thinking we were so tall. One museum about assasinations during the British occupation of Egypt. One museum about military history which was a bit like reading a government propaganda manual--Mubarak is the greatest! Again, it was the view and the arches that I liked, plus reading the funny English plaque translations and misspellings,"A bamb (bomb) used in 1957 war." Or this, "Tank made by the USSB (USSR)."

Cairo city view.

Mohmed Aly Mosque

Lights and tourists galore inside mosque.

Standing at the ablution fountain (where muslims wash before praying).

Two blondes under a tree and Cairo in the background.

It only takes a little Garrison Keillor to remind me of home

2006-01-10T08:44:00.000Z

It's morning and I'm stealing wireless from a neighboring apartment so I can tune in to Prairie Home Companion. It's been so long and I drink my Lipton and it almost feels like a Sunday morning drinking coffee sitting in the winter sun. Nostaligic for the familiar (and the predictable perhaps), Jeremy and I have been missing home a little bit; maybe that's why I tuned in to PHC. Being together makes home more tangible especially when being abroad like this you start feeling like everything started and ended within this time frame, because all the people you meet and all the sights you see, well, you have no other reference points. Yesterday we got ourselves comfortably lost just to explore. Munching on crunchy baked goods along the way and sipping fresh-squeezed oranage juice while Jeremy tries to learn all the Arabic for the fruit hanging in the doorway. I'm not weary of turning new corners just occasionally I get these pangs of longing for "all-things American" and I get to missing that feeling you have when a place just makes sense to you (the good and the bad of it). So I call my dad and cry for a bit and though the dreary feeling stays for awhile his words start to cheer me. Oh, and after all, I am in Cairo -- here's some pics.

Here's the juice stand with the fruit hanging in the doorway. Jeremy, what's pomegranate in Arabic?

Islamic center towers.

Street in front of the American University. McDonald's is peeking around the corner.

Hopelessly scouting out the French in this town. So far I've only found remnants of the language (English won as the foreign language of choice I imagine) and most of the influence remaining seems to be in the French architecture.

I swam with the fishes in the Red Sea

2006-01-07T15:12:00.000Z

Part of my fear of diving in the beginning was this: When you first learn to dive, they teach of every possible way you could die underwater (well, not quite, but every possible way something could go wrong). And, unfortunately, throughout it all, you have a tendency to lose sight of why you're really down there -- to look at fish (which being in the Red Sea sufficiently made up for). Plus, diving off the coast of Dakar isn't all sunshine, sand, and clear water -- sketchy weather, choppy waves, and coarse, unsympathetic French diving instructors scoffing at my mistakes.

But once I fell off the boat into the Red Sea for my first dive outside of the Atlantic, I was magnetized by the stretch and diversity of the coral (some of it's green, some that looks like a human brain), the millions of fish (I rarely saw the same species twice), and the color, so vivid and which even the camera has trouble picking up. It was truly incredible, and if not for my recent adversity to the cold, I could have stayed forever.

Here's a taste of it all:

Just after we jumped off the boat and put our heads underwater, these schools of fish just swimming about.

Timmy taking pictures.

Yes, we saw dolphins. Most people take 30 or 40 dives and never see them, but we were lucky enough to see them on the first dive (and of course my brother chased them -- hehe).

Boat culture: Being on the boat was almost as much fun as being off the boat. Jeremy and me chillin' just as we're leaving the port.

And don't miss Timmy in the lens.

And see more photos here.

A love affair with a slightly more developed country: Morocco in a day

2006-01-05T12:35:00.000Z

Traveling these days is no longer about shedding my American perspective, but rather about expanding the one I've acquired in the last four months. My reference point has shifted and traveling outside of Senegal is slowly allowing me to see that change. My reflex is no longer to make a comparison to my background in the US or to my travels in Europe, but rather to Senegal--the country where I've most recently been immersed. It also makes sense because I'm traveling in mostly-Muslim countries and ones that are, technically, still on the African continent, even though I do find myself repeating, "You're not in Africa anymore, Todo" (another story for another day).

So, Morocco, my first introduction to North Africa, and first introduction in awhile to a slightly more modern country. I hated myself for still speaking a colonial language (French) and not knowing a lick of Arabic to at least distinguish myself from the other tourists, which is something that gives me advantage in Senegal (I'm not over-charged as often and I get a lot more respect from people even if my few uttered Wolof phrases are poorly accented and poorly phrased). It was also my first time being a tourist in awhile, ahem, out comes camera, in comes feelings of cultural insensitivity (especially because we were doing it in a day). When we get to the train station, I almost giggle that train times are listed (and subsequently on time), but am silenced by the Euro-style trains and the cheap ticket prices ($3, because yes I'm back to converting to dollars). The intial giggle came from this: In Senegal, transportation comes when it comes and there ain't no set times and there ain't no posting of nothin'. It felt easy in comparison and I sighed with the ease of modernity while asking, where's the adventure in that?

Our primary destination once we got into Casa was to see the Hassan II (deux) Mosque, the second largest in the world after the one in Mecca, Saudi Arabia, where muslims make their pilgrimage. It's the main tourist destination in the city and I also wanted to see how it compared to Senegal's mosque in Touba which I visited a couple weeks ago. Hassan II is certainly far more grand and elegant than Touba, but both serve the ironical purpose of rising up out of poverty making you wonder if the money could have been better spent. But once inside, I was silenced by its peace and its enormity. And inside, what was it... the feelings that always come over me in huge religious structures (France's cathedrals for one): a sense of being belittled and a disconnect from whatever it is your supposed to feel connected.

Here's a sampling of photos, but more can be found by going here. Once there, you can click, "Lancer le diaporama" to see it as a slide show.

Playing with angles: the bottom of the minaret, the tallest structure on any mosque allowing you to see it for miles away. This one is actually 200 meters tall, the largest in the world.

View of the mosque from a distance, and Timmy in the left-hand corner.

View from inside. Most of the material used to construct the mosque was found in Morocco except the chandeliers which are from Italy and the interior white granite columns.

Rounding the bend to the Turkish baths on the bottom floor.

An oft-viewed scene, at least from my day there: Guys sitting outside coffee shops drinking tea and what... shooting the sh*t.

Looking back

2006-01-04T09:14:00.000Z

Sitting in a Cairo coffee shop yesterday with my two lifelines--cappuccino and wifi--at my fingertips, I marveled at how those first weeks in Dakar would have been easier if only I'd had a few tastes of western luxury. But really, looking back, I can't help but feel a sense of accomplishment, not necessarily from having survived the last four months in Senegal (something I didn't think I would be able to do, much less to stay on), but more from learning to live that life, and, the kicker, to be downright content with it. And it's freeing in a way... to realize I don't have to be dependent on internet and coffee and western conveniences, but that my life is more fulfilled by personal interaction starting with the many people in my house who never gave me personal space to the greetings in the street to making music in the courtyard with my good friends and having ataya (Senegalese tea). In that culture, we create fewer boundaries and more occasions to share what we have, which sadly arises from the poor living conditions but happily creates this larger social desire to give and to share.

My first lesson in this came the first day I moved into my family's house and my roommate and I realized we were going to be sharing a bed (not to mention a very small room), and when Zodiac commented on it, my host mother replied, "On portage tous au Senegal. C'est comme ca." (We share everything in Senegal.) And it was this sentiment that was echoed in action and in word throughout my stay and it was something that we as Americans studying there began to adopt as well. If I had money, I paid. If you had money, you paid. If I had water, you drank it. If I had an orange, everyone got a slice. And on and on. At one point I even had a (baay fall) fellow explain to me how in his brotherhood they share everything including candy to the point that if someone has one piece of candy, it's sucked on and passed from one person to the next. I've never seen it done, but you get the point.

I found it provides a sense of comfort and a strong sense of family, especially for someone like me setting out to live in that country alone. I think this is also why whenever anyone is introduced it's, "this is my brother or this is my sister or my grandma or my mamma" when in fact they really aren't, at least not by blood. It took some time to realize it and become familiar with it, but when I finally did, I felt the same protection and the same trust and just the overall feeling of being taken care of the same as I do when I'm at home in South Dakota.

So being away from it all and being in a different environment has given me the time and space to mull a bit over some of my experiences. Hopefully there's more to come. I also have photos and stories to share from Casablanca and the Red Sea. All in good time.

At die kaffee shoP, y0

View (vue) from Jeremy's flat (did I just use that word?)

Timmy Toubab and me

2005-12-23T17:59:00.000Z

My brother arrived early Sunday morning in all his Minnesota whiteness among the crowds of the Dakar airport getting jostled and jolted and scammed and seemingly oblivious to it all with his wide shiteating grin and practicing his long forgotten French with every vendor and trickster "Bonjour Ca Va? You from America?" And my brother unknowingly, unwittingly, replies head bobbing, "oui oui ca va, America, yes." And when I leave him for five minutes, he gets taken down the beach by two blokes looking for the perfect toubab to "tour their village." And the dive shop lady says, "Il faut que tu expliques des choses du Senegal a ton frere (you need to explain some things about Senegal to your brother)." So it's all part of the learning experience, for both of us, me learning to play host to this country that suddenly has become mine in small ways and suddenly I'm in a position to try to explain it all to someone else (someone who all my life has been the one explaining-me life's lessons). And I feel I'm in the middle, in the middle between being a toubab tourist and a what? toubab resident? Either way, there's still a lot more to learn and my few words of Wolof and the few bargaining skills I've picked up and my occasional attitude when someone tries to pull a fast one on me are only the beginning and, really, are only the bare minimum needed to survive here (but not easily transferrable in a week's time).

But, soon we'll be off, both out of our elements, to spend Christmas Day touring Casablanca and then off to (rendre visite!) visit Jeremy of Arabia in Egypt -- I just hope he's ready for us.

Have a happy Christmas. And no matter how exotic these travels sound, my heart is in South Dakota with all of you, the cold, the snow, midnight mass, real Christmas decorations, yummy Christmas food, and warm houses. Love from Senegal, Casablanca, and Cairo!

Where I go: Finding places

2005-12-13T11:03:00.000Z

I've been finding place here in Senegal. Places where I belong, where I'm expected, where I'm known, where I know the rythm and I play it, play it along with everyone else. And it becomes my own. I used to celebrate awkwardness, because I had nothing else to do. Knowing that each and every situation I would get into I would feel strange, somewhat out of place, I was bound to say or do the wrong thing. There was this mild transition period and then suddenly -- was it a month ago? two months? after I got back from the States? -- I felt at ease. What I expected was what they expected. I started just being, just like that.

Places I've found:
-Laying on my sisters' bed talking about boys, texting our friends, watching Sex and the City
-Resting with my host mom in the salon talking about n'importe quoi (nothing in particular), but relishing our chatter, our laughter, my foolishness, and our silences
-Being totally chill at Chez Gabi. Alhumdulillah for Chez Gabi. Sitting in the hammock staring at the trees above. Creating boite magique and music and peace. Making food especially fruit salad, grilled fish, and grated vegetables, and AND French-pressed real coffee grounds (big BIG alhumdullilah, merci bon dieu).
-Chez Aminou with the ataya, Mouridullilah talk, and laughing at Stephanie :-)
-And really the place that brings it all together: Plage Mamelles. Breaking the surf, going out far beyond the waves, getting stung by jelly fish, doing the "Bryan and Stephanie" in water, hurting my ears trying to touch the bottom, long freeing talks with Stephanie, being goofy. Getting trop lashed by the waves and the rocks coming back to shore, but slowly learning how to read the water and escape the beating. The "quoi" boys in all their glory bringing us food and robbing us later, quoi. And just loving to "reposer" (rest) from Dakar, clear my head, just as everyone does. We'd all be lost without the ocean clearing.

The "mountain" where the Mamelles Lighthouse stands, and the namesake for the plage.

Little diapered boy circling our towel getting in the way of the footballers.

Sweet Stephanie.

That's a Senegal sun (and I think my leg).

Mmmm... marvelous sunsets that leave me believing in god, loving life, wanting more, and hungry.

Senegal's Richesse: Touba Mosque

2005-12-12T13:21:00.000Z

Senegal may be lacking in natural resources and you can drop a pebble on the ground and find poverty at your feet or find it tugging on your sleeve by way of a little begger boy. But to find all of Senegal's riches in one place all you need to do is eye the mosque in the city of Touba, about a two hour drive into the interior from Dakar. Touba is the spirtual center for the Mouride brotherhood, one of the largest and fastest growing brotherhoods in Senegal. Its founder, Serigne Touba, believed in hard work and peanuts, which helped fuel the peanut industry here in addition many of the vendors in Dakar and in Europe and the States are Mouride. And that's where the money comes from. Everyone believes in sending money back to their spiritual place and their spiritual guides.

Most everyone in Senegal is Muslim (somewhere between 95 and even up to 99 percent some say) and most every Muslim aligns with one of the five or six brotherhoods. The brotherhoods serve as community that helps people stay focused and gives them a living, real-time version of their religion. Each has variants on how they believe, how they vote, who their spiritual leader is, how they view aspects of life, how many times a day they pray, if it's okay to drink and to smoke weed. It's a powerful force in Senegal and you can see pictures of the marabouts (spiritual leaders) posted everywhere. But especially the Mourides who've managed to incorporate economics into the rigor of their brotherhood and hence increasing their stronghold.

Walking in: The women all had to wear skirts and headscarves.

A view. An angle.

The ceiling in the women's prayer area.

A doorway.

Touba silence. C'est ici.

We had to walk barefoot too. It made me feel closer to it in some ways. Done for religious reasons and so as not to track in dirt, but it's a good way to understand something bottom up.

Not needing words

2005-12-01T14:37:00.000Z

When I went home last week it was to see my aunt who's been sick with cancer since late spring. Making the decision to leave the program for 10 days wasn't easy since sometimes getting in and out of a culture is tricky. But the transition has gone smoothly, and I couldn't have done it without the people on both sides -- my family in SoDak and my good friends and my Senegalese family here. And Tuesday I found out just how lucky I was to have made the trip home. My aunt died in the hospital Monday afternoon in the middle of a huge South Dakota snow/ice storm. The weather left my family immobile and many of them without electricity and some who didn't even know of her death until a day or two later. And like so much in South Dakota, even her death is connected to the weather.

Hearing the news that day with my fingertips pressed into the headphones of my Skype headset, I felt myself flailing, wanting to hug and be hugged, wanting to touch my people who are reeling and hurting from the loss of someone who is so large in all of our lives. Watching the Dakar forecast flash 82 degrees and sunny, I kept dipping and coming up empty, the call was finished, I felt far away, and I didn't know how to grieve grasping empty air until suddenly I was surrounded by those here who've come to mean so much to me here. Being kissed and hugged and patted and touched, I moved from one person's arms to the next crying and talking about Barb, about her curiousity, her love for life, her farm, her L-shaped couch, about holidays in her warm underground house, about her mile-a-minute questions, about how she always made me feel home, about how much she loved all of us, her family. I used all the languages I know to say--French, English, Wolof-- how it hurt, but really it was one of the first times since I've been here that honestly I didn't need a word, I was just simply understood. And most of all, I realized after all these months, what it means to have a second home.

Safe and sound in Dakar - Alhamdullah

2005-11-23T09:56:00.000Z

Twenty seven hours of travel and three continents later, I've never been so happy to reach a place. And Dakar is a place you learn to love. Meaning, it's certainly not automatic. And maybe being home was the time I needed to fully appreciate this (my) dirty African city which I plan to call home for six more months (inshallah -- god willing). A common expression here is "alhamdullah" meaning thanks to god. It's written on most cars probably because traffic here is so crazy and you often fear for your life (I'm being dramatic -- sort of), so really you would give thanks to allah just to make it to your destination. I do. One also says "alhamdullah" in most conversations going something like this, -"How are you?" -"I am good. Alhamdullah."-"How's the family? Is anyone sick?" -"No, alhamdullah." So as I touched ground in Dakar, the Senegalse guy next to me uttered "alhamdullah," and I said, "y0, that's what I'm talking about. Alhamdullah.

A day in the life of this voyager -- three currencies!

Going home-home

2005-11-08T17:24:00.000Z

When things begin to click and un-click is when it's hard to write, to document a place that suddenly I'm capable of living in seems as if I'll jinx it and go back to feeling lost. And when I'm here and not here is when I start to lose my way around the days and the balance of my thoughts. I'm going back to the States for 10 days, leaving this Wednesday--tomorrow. Meaning this weekend I will be spending in South Dakota, not in some Dakar night club drinking skunky Senegalese beer, but actually going home-home (because just one home is in Sacre Coeur 3). These last weeks feeling pulled between two worlds my home-home and my life here, which when put side by side seem completely foreign, and that's what I mean by spinning, just not knowing where I'm at from one moment to the next: One night last week I had such a vivid dream of having a conversation with my brother on the couch of my aunt's house. I remember the feeling between us and the way we were laughing and I remember smelling the food and hearing the sounds of a dinner being prepared. I woke up wondering if it'd really happened, but it's only because I've been thinking so much about it and there it was, in my dream. So I'm trying to brace myself for the extremes, which I can only hope that I have the strength and the will, but I have to because it's not for me, it's for my family, and that alone gives me peace.

Korite bi

2005-11-08T15:03:00.000Z

I know why it's worth it to fast now: to break the fast. One long month of Ramadan and I was happy to see the people around me stuffing their faces in the middle of the day again, happy to see them going out at night, happy to see the streets filled again, and the night clubs grooving, and the the music playing. The flow is back in Dakar, and I was missing it. That was my fast, I selfishly conclude.

I woke up Korite morning feeling the holiday, like home on Thanksgiving or Christmas. I awoke and ate a big bowl of millet and yogurt with a few interspersed raisons. And then people started coming and going bringing dishes and asking forgiveness of the members of the family. My mom gave Zodiac and I a long speech about sharing the house with her, of being away from our families, of appreciation. Later in the day, about 3, we ate again, a big tasteful meal of chicken, fries, onion sauce, little pasta noodles, peas, and fresh carrots (y0!). The day was loungeful and easy, napping and reading, and just being, smiling contently, and with a full stomach. Evening time came and we all begin donning our boubous -- long, grand, flowing, dresses usually consisting of a sarong or skirt on the bottom and a large dress on the top. Then we took pictures and paraded around the neighborhood visiting the homes of the other American students. My maman practically insisted that I go out dancing (il faut dancer ce soir), and I didn't need much convincing. As a 'ported' my boubou out into the night I realized just how elegant and feminine and dignified I felt even in such a formless baggy outfit. I was expecting jeers and mocking when I stepped out--a toubab in traditional Senegalese dress who does she think she is? But instead, I found people smiling and appreciative and even the vendor at the nescafe stand was impressed enough to give us our midnight coffees for free. And that was Korite, bi.

My sister, Matou, and the brother of one of the American students who lives in my neighborhood.

My sister, Lala, and Mike, a point on my triangle.

My roommate (and sister!) Zodiac.

There's our crew.

Celebrating the end of Ramadan

2005-11-02T18:24:00.000Z

I wanted to write a quick note to say I'll be out of "comish" for a few days since I'll be celebrating the end of Ramadan with my family. The event is called Korite and will apparently happen either tomorrow or Friday depending on if the moon disappears or tonight or tomorrow. I'm not sure exactly what happens on Korite because every time I ask someone in my family they just say, "We dress up." "Then what?" I ask. "We eat and people visit." From Islam class, I learned it's also the time when people seek forgiveness from their friends and family and that's probably where the visiting comes in. I should have a lot of good photos by the time the week is over since everyone has bought a new outfit, new shoes, new hats for the occasion, and will most certainly want to be photographed in it.

Donc, Bon Korite.

Excerpts from a journal entry

2005-10-28T12:11:00.000Z

16 Oct. 2005 dimanche (Sunday)

And it was one of those days that, well, I've never had before. Tromping through the north central region of Senegal, bumping along backroads, no roads, and roads that end, looking for a village that used to be called one thing and is now called something else. A Wolof village. A small village which we circled upon circled before finally finding. They remembered the toubabs (foreigners) who were here 10 years ago, "yes yes that was us" (not me of course). Amadou and Gray had been there before to do interviews about the land and had taken photos. This was a return mission to show them the photos. The village chief smiled wildly recognizing himself in the first photo. The women grabbed the rest, some were small in the photos, some weren't born yet. And many had died or departed.

The conversation in Wolof with Gray as my little English bird translating some words and Amadou stopping to take notes and translate to us in French. Conversations about the four young people from the village who've left for Italy, others who've left for Touba (a larger, religious city in Senegal) and of course for Dakar. And conversation on how they are only using about 10 percent of their cultivatable land for crops, planting sorghum, millet, bissap, peanuts.

Driving... loved the endless and always remarkable and always unique croppings of baobabs. Loved learning the vegetation which, if I'll remember, is somehow satisfying -- satisfying to look out into a land and know its trees. Hmmm what do I know so far? Desert fig, umbrella tree, winter thorn, neem the fast growing shade tree (sp?).

Sweated more than I ever have before even the hot wind through the windows was infernal. The Dakarois who said it would be hot were right "il fait chaud." Ate a Senegalese watermelon and mandarin. The mandarin tangy and only a little sweet tasted as fresh as it can be. Watermelon ate so much of since there was no way to keep it for later.

And now I'm lying in a cot beneath the stars, the temperature has cooled to a perfect degree, and I'm in Senegal, in it for good.

See some more photos here

Village life (in Senegal)

2005-10-28T11:16:00.000Z

I'm not sure what perception I had of village life before I left. I figured people wouldn't be so traditional as to be dressed in loin cloths and holding spears (that's even funny to think about). Senegal isn't that remote. Even though surrounded by the harshness of this environment, villages are little havens of peace, coolness, shelter, cooking, women dressed in bright fabrics, men tending to the animals (goats, sheep which look like goats, cows, horses, donkeys). Places of reprieve.

There are many different ethinc groups in Senegal. The dominant is Wolof, which is also the language that most people speak in their homes and on the streets while French is reserved for more formal settings (school, business, government). However, once we got into the northern regions, we encountered many Pulaar (also Peul) who are generally the nomadic animal herders. They live in the north during the rainy season when watering holes fill with water and the grasses turn greener, then when it dries, they move their families and homes on the back of donkey-drawn carts to the more south central areas which get more rain.

The pictures below are all of a Peul village.

What is a baobab?

2005-10-28T10:17:00.000Z

One of the most distinctive features of the West African landscape is the baobab tree. The serene elegance of a baobab often stands in stark contrast to the surrounding sahel landscape of oceans of sand, grasses and difficult-to-cultivate land, and even in a city, when you walk around a large baobab, you have a hard time believing its magnificence in the dirty, busy traffic.

It's not surprising the baobab is often considered by African tribes a sacred tree. Simply putting out your hand to touch its smooth slippery bark, feeling its coolness on the hottest of days, seeing it from a distance and never ever not being amazed by its many shapes, its grandeur and the way it exists peacefully in a landscape that often feels like its erroding with desertification, crop difficulties, and loss of vegetation. Nearly every part of the baobab is used for either a praticial, medicinal or food purpose, and its resilence is proven by its ability to survive harsh temperatures and little rain year and year in the sub-Sahara.

On my first trip to Africa, I saw a lot of baobabs in passing as we zipped by them in our trek to visit four countries in three weeks. But this trip, I finally got closer to what a baobab means here as we started using them for our shade trees, seeking baobabs to sleep under, pulling apart its fruit, seeing them as landmarks to the next turn.

We traveled in the north central region near the Senegal River and the border of Mauretania, and the areas just slightly south of that.

Two baobabs near the city of Thies on the way out of Dakar.

Baobab trunk.

Can you feel it too?

Back from the Bush

2005-10-24T13:35:00.000Z

We started last Saturday by renting a truck in Dakar and then slowly winding our way north through now non-existent kingdoms except in name, up to the north central part, up to the river, being able to see Maurtania, see the pirogue that could take us there, but staying contentedly on the Senegal side. It was a journey full of ups and downs with five (was that the last count?) flat tires, many battles with the prickly cocklburred vegetation including pinned trees and grass species of "cram cram" as little burs are called in French, and the heat... heat that plagues you and no way for a reprieve with only hot winds and shade trees hard to come by. Heat that beats down absolutely and relentlessly, where your body even forgets to sweat at times and even the flies are slow, where even our water nears boiling temperature, but we have no choice but to dump it down our throats. But the heat would fastly turn into a beautiful serene cool evening where we'd just find a blank patch of sand in the sea of grasses, lay out our cots, and then I'd rest feeling the heat leaving my body, staring at the endless peaceful sky and just really, ever so acutely enjoying the temperature bracing myself for the next day's 9:30-morning sun when the heat begins its descent.

And it was a week of having english in one ear and french in another. Gray speaking up about the vegetation, the soils, the people, the farming, and anything else I asked. And because he's my special visitor from Brookings, we talked about this weekend's hobo days, the Lowe's store vote, the Brookings Register, and everything else that goes with being nostaligic for home. On the other half, I had Amadou. Amadou who's traveled with Gray out in the bush for 20 years, who is so versed on the history, culture, landscape, agriculture, people of Senegal that he's always pointing something out, always coming out with a tidbit about this and that, always finding a way to make the hottest and most difficult days relevent, insightful, and an intellectual quest.

And we saw village life, which for a city girl (not really, but with Dakar at that point my only only reference) was amazingly good and relieving and incredible, and especially good to realize how great people treat each other once you get out of the city. We were invited to share shade, went down the long line of greetings "how's your family? are you passing the day in peace? how's the heat? how's Dakar? how's America?" to which most everything you answer peacefully and by thanking god. And then Amadou would begin the explanation for why were there, why were visiting, why were sharing their land for this moment. Then leading to our questions on water, crops, trees, the herds. I just tried to take it all in.

I'm still reflecting, still settling in, still editing photos, but I'll post more as the week goes on.

Pulaar village in the north.

View near Thies.

A fresh of air from Dakota

2005-10-13T15:49:00.000Z

And it was the comment, "it's humid here" that made me breathe in just a little of home through my first visitor to Dakar. And it was leading him through the streets to my neighborhood bar that made it real. The release of two-months worth of stories and built-up tensions to someone that needs no explaining, to someone that knew me before, before Senegal, and before when living came so easy (sigh). A conversation that didn't need a recap in a history book and I could just be changed and unchanged and soak up the response to "How is South Dakota?" The cold, fall, the leaves, the student traffic in Brookings, the package from my mother, the lovely Time magazine that we spent French class smuggling from lap to lap laughing at the advertisements and Tom and Katie are having a baby!

We took a poll today. You want to know what an American in Senegal craves from home?
-Oreos
-M&Ms
-Pop Tarts
-The New York Times
-Good coffee

So, if you're near any of these, say a little cheers and enjoy. ;-)

My first African grasshopper

2005-10-12T15:20:00.000Z

Yesterday, I wished upon a baobab tree

2005-10-12T11:45:00.000Z

No day is predictable here and yesterday, detoured from scuba because of high waves, I ended up weaving through the small paths of a local Lebou fishing village on the shores of Plage (beach) Ngor. The Lebou are their own ethnic group but I think somehow they are related to the dominant Senegalese ethnic group, the Wolof, because they supposedly speak their own dialect of Wolof (the national language in Senegal with French as the official language). But I'm curious as to how it manages to survive linguistically with the dominance of Wolof. But that's for another day.

Now, as little ants crawl across my keyboard, I'll try to retell the story of the Lebou as it was told to me. Our guides began by drawing a map of Africa in the wet sand telling us that this first Lebou village on the farthest tip of West Africa was formed 600 years ago, "the only thing next is America." They're all fishermen and each family has its own specific fishing technique with the one example given to us where the spiritual leader who talks to the pelicans, "they talk like this 'sshshhbshssh' just like someone would talk French or Wolof and then we all rev our motors and follow the pelicans out to sea where we lay down our nets." When they come back to shore with the fish, they let the pelicans feast until taking the catch (tuna, eel, octupus are a few that I saw) to a collaborative where it's weighed, refridgerated, and sold to people from all over who come to buy the "good and cheap fish of the Lebou."

"You can go off on your own and sell your fish the hotels, any hotels, the Europeans, or you can go someplace else and sell, but then you are on your own if anything happens to your boat or to you, you have to only help yourself. Where here if my motor is not working I can take it in and they will help fix it. Or if my family is sick, they will take care of them," our guide explains the collaborative system of the village.

The boats are made out of two different kinds of wood (a fromagerie tree and another that I didn't catch the name) found in the Casamance (the southern region of Senegal). First they take the tree trunk and chip away the middle and then each day during a month or so they take a bucket of water and splash it in the inside so eventually it will hollow out, "you see we don't have machines like you, so this is the way we do it." Then they nail the top piece to the bottom and anchor it just off shore so the wood can expand. Three times a year they have races with other Lebou villages.

The Lebou are both muslim and animist. It is pretty common in Senegal and in West Africa for people to combine both their traditional religious beliefs with the "colonizer's" religion. One of the aspects of this for the Lebou is their sacred baobab tree where spirits and perhaps even the ancestors live. This is the baobab I said a prayer under wishing for the good health of my family closing my eyes and dropping my flower stem over the locked gate.

We paid our dues to our guide and to the village (because that's how things work in Africa) by buying a half-sac of grain to be put in the community grainery. Then we hitched our ride in a car rapide back to Dakar.

Hardly noticable until once your inside it, I did appreciate the feel of this little village with everyone greeting each other as they traversed the small paths, the lack of visible trash, the good smells of breaking-the-fast food wafting out of houses and from little outside cooking pots. And that it was calm and people seemed happy with children running about, the elders sitting calmly in the center chatting and saying their prayers, women resting in the shade. Our guide liked to keep repeating the authenticy of the village and though I doubt his words more so because I struggle to imagine that anything is really authentic anymore, it was worth the price of grain for a tour.

A few photos from the weekend

2005-10-11T13:56:00.000Z

I didn't have my photos uploaded yesterday when I posted, so here's a few from the weekend. I didn't take very many. I think I forgot where I was for awhile and it didn't even strike me to pull out my camera. Unfortunately, all the photos are of the "Lac" and not of the village. I guess I'll just have to go back to Chez Ibrahim...

Stephanie and Ibrahim

The un-Rose Lac Rose

Some "African" villas for the tourists.

The pool in all its uninhabitated cleanly glory

Nothing to it

2005-10-10T11:38:00.000Z

When things make sense and they don't, when no explanation is adequate, when I have no choice but to wait, when no question is answered/understood/ interpretted, when I have sand in my teeth and my feet will never be clean, when every world feels so far away, when I drift between being me and being what?, when I feel there's no before or after, when my heart hurts and it doesn't, when I feel the ground is solid and unsteady all at once, when I could go on with all the ways I feel scared, uncomfortable, awkward, uncertain, suddenly and remotely familiar, when I vaguely comprehend and lose it soon after, that's when I know I'm in really "living a moment" (see first blog entry) in Senegal.

I spent the weekend drifting between Africa and Europe's version of Africa. Between holes covered with yellow plastic freesbies for toilets, fly-infested fish filets and the other version with blue pools, caged monkeys, toilet paper, and three dollar beers. One was a village not far from Dakar (50 km, a world away, and a two-hour, 40-cent car rapide ride) and the other the touristy Lac Rose not far from the village.

The village: huts made out of concrete, sand everywhere, yes to electricity, no to running water, no to speaking French, yes to speaking Wolof and Pulaar (two ethnic groups), yes to listening to the xalam, a traditional musical instrument with three strings and made out of goat skin and wood. Our host: Ibrahim, as he paraded his toubabs around, alternated between knowing the world and not, being Muslim and not, drinking alcohol and not, eating bread and not, smoking and not, fasting and not, between accomodating and over-accomodating, interesting and sketchy and yes, money, always a question. His favorite expressions: "Take it easy" and the one we taught him somewhat mockingly (during a particularly exasperating moment) "Chill out, man."

Lac Rose: a lake of salt and minerals and hot water that seeps through the sands and seashells at the bottom of the lake. Home to a salt-mining industry, home to the final destination of the Paris to Dakar Rally (where people drive motos/cars/buses/anything all the way from Paris to Dakar through the desert and all). The water is like an epsom salt bath and in the dry season (November to February), the lake has a pinkish hue.

Things to remember: Laughing hysterically about taking a "shower" with a blue plastic cup as the professor Ib. sits outside the door, wondering why "Tuesday" was written in the concrete and coming up with our own satirical explanation, speaking the words "Michelle, I got bit by a monkey today" (who says that?), and this, "what would I be doing if I was here alone?" The first time sitting in Chez Ibrahim's compound and letting my ears adjust to the nature quiet, the no-Dakar feeling, the roosters crowing, the donkeys willy wail. Writing in Steph's journal and reading it moments later to laugh some more "I'm driving in a car rapide squished in with 39 other people (Michelle counted), and my professor turns to me..." Falling alseep with the sounds of the xalam under the stars in a mosquito net... for awhile anyway until it got cold and Stephanie got jostled and the morning came and we realized we hadn't really slept at all. Speaking wolof knowing nothing and knowing something.

What the weekend taught me...

I can always expect: Bug bites, sun burn, dirt so far under my nails it'll never come out.

What I can't expect: Everything else.

Something from the journal from Night 2:

"Sand. I can't seem to get it off me. My toes, fingernails, scalp. I roll over on my pillow, sand grates my face. It rains and the winds blow and I hug myself against the sand storms in my dreams. The roof begins to leak. Drops. Here on my cheek. I turn. It's here too. I cover myself with the pagne and smell musty wetness. I think (dream?) about the mosquito net outside that we didn't sleep in. Why does the rain seem such a jolt in the middle of the night? I worry the roads will be impassable in the morning back to Dakar (fear?). The rains stop. I sleep. It rains again. It drips more. It's morning."

Bon Ramadan

2005-10-06T17:58:00.000Z

Ramadan started Wednesday based on the appearance of the new moon which means most Muslims are not eating or drinking (including water) between sun rise and sun set for the next 29 or so days. It's interesting to see the change in society: No one frequenting the restaurants, the streets are slightly more subdued (especially mid0day), people are fatigued and show it, during lunch break at the university people converge around a bench in the courtyard absentmindedly kicking things on the ground. A student offered one of the Quranic school beggars a banana and he covered his mouth in horror. Today as I was the lone person waiting for a sandwhich from the sandwhich stand a guy comes up and blazeningly orders two sandwhichs and two orange sodas and then arrogantly precedes to ask everyone to "gouter" (to taste). They all refused, I took a big gulp of his soda, and asked him why he wasn't fasting. He says he works too hard to fast during Ramadan and showed me photos of some metal bird statues he welds and sells by the road. He still kept tempting the rest of the workers with bites of his sandwhich and drinks from his soda and I told him he wasn't very nice but he just laughed.

A few of the American students are fasting and I considered it mostly just to discover the impact it would have on my body. But I decided it's tedious enough trying to maintain my health here that I worried by not eating well during the day and specifically not being able to drink water all day might push me back again. I have gotten the range of reactions from Senegalese about my decision from "It's not necessary; it's not your religion; don't worry about it." to "Why aren't you fasting?! You should at least try it! You can't celebrate Koride (the end of Ramadan party) if you don't!"

Apart of me wishes I could join in. It's very much a social event where everyone wakes up and breakfasts and then spends the day without eating to assemble at sunset to break the fast with dates and a rice dish and bisap juice (juice made from a local berry). It's grueling and stressful and tiring but you're sharing the experience with a lot of others and you have the euphoric moment at the end of each day when you get to eat.

And without the religious aspect for me I would have trouble justifying it and staying dedicated to it (how about that mid-morning coffee?). But I did feel guilty this morning when I heard my family getting up at 5:45 to eat their breakfast and rolled over to dream about my later-breakfast at 7:30.

You can shower with a half liter of water.

2005-10-03T14:19:00.000Z

It was a weekend without water in most of Dakar. Scenes of village life played out all over the city with people going to the few places with water to fill multi-colored buckets and then to balance them slowly on their heads to be carried through the streets back to their homes. But, (big sigh here) it seems all things are made more complicated because we live in a city and not in a village--conveniences make life easier but more complex and life without those conveniences means annoyance but maybe simplicity on some levels. It feels like a lot of the cultural values that I read about or have learned about since being here are (potentially?) slowly eroding or are below a surface of mistrust or dishonesty (whichever be the case). Dakar is an ever-shifting city filled with much diversity, but it doesn't seem to represent the traditional Senegal that I hear so much about, instead people develop city-survival-skills and in the process lose some of their traditions and, really, some of their culture. Not that there isn't "culture" in Dakar, it's just one that has been tainted/influenced by a city, good or bad, it forces people to change the way they live, changes their priorities, and changes their needs too. In two weeks, I'm taking a trip into the interior of Senegal, and I'm looking forward to the doors of understanding it's going to open both in having a better perspective of what this country looks like, but also, maybe I'll finally get a peak at the more traditional culture that I feel I've heard so much about, but have difficulty uncovering here. On the other hand, the trip might just cause my hypothesis to change or to be disproven, and I want to leave room for that.

Island excursion and finding out what a sea urchin looks like

2005-09-29T16:45:00.000Z

There are a few islands within view of the Dakar shores--Gorée, Ngor, and Madeleine. Saturday we visited the uninhabitated island of Madeleine just a 10-minute boat ride from here. It rises out of a gracious rock formation and at the top turns into hilly green before making room for a little patch of baobabs. The rocks drop down to form a small enclave in the center which fills with water as the waves break over the distant side and slowly seep into the pool. It's calm and serene and the blue green of the sea is a surprise after the dirtier parts of the ocean close to Dakar.

But it wasn't this picturesque pool that captured my attention; I discovered sea urchins. The conversation went like this:

Friend: "Watch out there's lots of sea urchins up here."
Me, while hopping up and down: "Ohmygod! Where? What do they look like? Is this a sea urchin?"
Friend: "No that's coral."
Me: "Are they everywhere? Why can't I see them?"
Friend: "No, they're just in the standing pools of water."

And finally I spotted the prickly little black things lounging in the crevices. And thankfully I could stop jumping around worried I would step on poisonous spiky oceansomeTHINGs. And that's what I mean about being a prairie girl at heart, at least there, the only things I was ever told to look out for were rattle snakes and buffalo.

But I loved even for a few moments feeling like I was alone. I hiked to the north side of the island and ran from the waves crashing over the rocks, and later just sat and stared sitting in my bathing suit not being hassled for the first time in a very long time.

The enclave.

The waves rushing in and rushing back out again.

The white on the rocks is bird poop. The birds were apparently out fishing while we were there.

Here they are! The sea urchin extravaganza!

Believe me, this isn't all the pictures. But these are the best.

Scuba

2005-09-29T15:58:00.000Z

The people in our program come from all over, have varied backgrounds, and most have traveled quite extensively for 20-somethings. One day when I was being taught the somewhat involved way to stand defense against the ocean waves (i.e. when to swim into them and when to face them, etc.), a Boston girl asked, "Where have you been that you haven't swam in the ocean?" Hehe... or the other question, "Are you an ocean person or a mountain person?" I'm a prairie girl and I'll leave it at that.

So the descent to 6 meters (19 feet) into the ocean was a little scary. I'd like to say I was the first one out of the boat (see not so adventurous afterall, Gray), but no, I was the last. I'd like to say I didn't have to come up multiple times to stumble through questions in French like "Am I doing this right?" "Are my ears supposed to hurt?" "Why am I having so many problems?" "Is this normal?" And that was only the "baptism" dive meant to give me insight into what kind of scuba-er I'm going to make. To that I have no idea, but I guess I'll keep going 'cause my brother wants to tour the scuba world this December.

Here are some photos of Adventures in Scuba (plongée in French, like plunge, I like that).

Of the eight people who signed up, the Brave Three -- Me, Alix, and Zodiac.

Michelle in the boat while everyone else's scubas.

Are you finally going to take the plunge or what?

Part II with gear.

Mmmm... finally in the water, "Why didn't I bring my french dictionary?"

Being sick in Dakar -- Ce n'est pas grave!

2005-09-29T14:58:00.000Z

I knew it would hit me sometime, but these things always come, well a bit, fast and loose and before I knew it I was joining the group with our coined and combined "Dakarhea." It's a bitter bitter cycle knowing virtually everything you eat is going to come out in liquid form. And knowing what things make it worse but knowing you have no choice but to eat that ceebu jen platter just one more time (it's the remedy for all sickness here no matter how tumultuous your stomach). Senegalese families don't understand "plain rice" or "plain pasta" or "plain" anything nor do they understand just not eating much while you're sick.

So, it's a struggle and also why I haven't posted in awhile. That and the internet being down day-after-day at our school, but ce n'est pas grave (it's no big deal, no problem, doesn't matter, just go with it -- what choice do I have?).

Flash Flood Dakar

2005-09-22T12:37:00.000Z

Before I came, I asked a friend who'd lived in Senegal before and who travels here quite frequently, if he thought I should bring rain gear since Senegal has basically two seasons rainy and dry. He told me I probably wouldn't need anything since the rain here never amounts to much. So imagine my surprise the first day I was here and the streets were flooded and cars were stalling from all the water back up. But my friend had reason for saying what he did since this is the first time in about 20 years (local sources say...) that Senegal has had this much rain. This weekend when we drove south to Toubab Dialaw we saw a lot of the devastation from this surprisingly wet rainy season. Since it's been so long since there's been this much rain a lot of people have built homes and businesses in areas where the water tables are pretty high. Now with all the rain the water just won't go down. It won't drain and it won't soak into the earth. Many people, poor and rich, have lost their homes and businesses to the water. And I don't think there's much for flood insurance.

This was taken one day a couple weeks ago on my way to school.

This the HLM fabric market in Dakar. Even with the flood most people were still buying and selling like usual.

This is one the route to Toubab Dialaw outside of Dakar (courtesy of Mike from "Holmes away from home."

This too.

It takes an old hand

2005-09-20T18:16:00.000Z

Mom, you don't need to send toilet paper for Christmas, I've learned how to use the teapot. After some weeks of carying toilet paper around with me everywhere and some days of spilling water on myself and seeking the precise aim for such things, I've got it down... down there. So not to be too overly descriptive, all I can is this: If you pour the water down the small of your back and then use your left hand (that's why we only eat with our right) to clean-clean, you'll forever do a better job than toilet paper. Second, for the front, if you lean back a bit and pour the water directly down you can get a very direct stream that cleans good (hand usage not necessary). This method works so well I'm not even sure what we use toilet paper for anymore, and I've stopped instinctively reaching for it every time I sit down on the "throne."

A hammock weekend

2005-09-19T13:30:00.000Z

We left Dakar for the first time since we've been here to travel to a small village called Toubab Dialaw, south of here about two hours. I didn't realize how tense I've been with everything -- the stress of adjusting, the high pace of Dakar, the constant traffic -- until I arrived at this quaint resort and gave in to all the hammock-filled corners, low-seated chairs facing the ocean, mosaic-tiled tables, shelled architecture. It made me yearn for endless days of writing and reading and pondering. And the food. I am learning to love Senegalese food which harbors tastes and smells I've never had in anything else, but it was good to have a few things with a Western flair including chocolate chip cookies and salad, mostly salad.

African toothbrush

2005-09-16T19:34:00.000Z

It's really common to see people walking around chewing on sticks. For a long time, I just thought, "hmmm they're chewing on sticks the way sometimes at home when I'm walking through the field I chew on a weed." Which of course my American/South Dakotan explanation for all-things-African never suffices, so I finally asked and found out that these sticks are what people often use to clean their teeth (not to give you the impression that nobody brushes their teeth, because that isn't the case either). There's also a special "toothbrush" tree from which these sticks derive. And Jeremy has brought my attention to something he read in "Passion for Islam" by Carlyle Murphy that the prophet used to use a stick as a toothbrush and many people started emulating him. So as I discover more, I'll keep sharing. In the meantime, here's me doing my best to brush my teeth a la Afrique.

Slowly learning a place (ndank, ndank)

2005-09-15T11:55:00.000Z

Sometimes when I encounter Senegalese here and they ask where else in Africa I've traveled and when I tell them they often say, "So you're African then." But what's funny is the longer I'm here the less I think of it as being "Africa" and even less as "Senegal" but in more specific terms like Ouakam (where my school is), Sacre Coeur (where my house is), Mermoz (where many of my friends live). On the plane over, I read the special National Geographic issue on Africa and it seemed like this tangible place. Now when I flip through the very same pages the images seem more foreign--NOW that I'm here--than they did on the plane. I think, before coming here I had created this idea in my head of Africa conceptualized by, "I want to study in Africa. Someday I want to work in Africa." But more and more the resounding blank "Everything You Knew. Think Again" cover of NG is piercing me especially as get lost and discover the very small section of my neighborhood. And to think, I used to say I was going to AFRICA.

All places become bigger and smaller to us as we travel, sometimes simultaneously, and it's just because I'm on the verge do I write this. But it's strange to think that even though I'd traveled here (here as in Africa) for three weeks in March that I though I knew this place (this place as in Africa) and I really don't. I probably had more accurate expectations than most and there are scenes that can be had all across, at least West Africa, that I was prepared for (dirty, garbage in the street, marriage proposals from men, Nescafe, bargaining). But I'm learning far more about this culture (Wolof? Senegalese? Both?) in only three weeks and a half (and counting) than I ever did about any of the four countries we visited during spring break. But I'm still not learning enough. One layer only reveals another layer. The moment I learn one thing it only opens up the door for a lot more things that I just don't understand. This is both motiviating and frustrating. But one thing is for sure that we all create familiar spaces for ourselves. Time it takes, yes, but eventually we do, and I'm finding those places. Comfort in walking through the gates of our campus every morning when the rush and the noise of the street suddenly fades. Having fewer and fewer surprises coming out of the kitchen at my family's home, "Ah I know what this tastes like. We had it last week." Even something like going to a place more than once: I've circled around Place de l'Indepdence (main intersection downtown) three or four times now and it makes me feel like I know this spot. Again, it always comes down to those little things, which will maybe lead to bigger things. But only if I'm lucky. "Ndank, ndank." (Slowly in Wolof).

Some photos of my family

2005-09-13T11:10:00.000Z

There was a baptism in my extended family this weekend so I had the chance to take some photos of my "maman" and her friends dressed up. Plus, some group shots of all my American neighbors.

Me, Maman, and Zodiac (my sister/roommate)

Maman always the mother. She calls us all her children. "C'est tous mes enfants."

Photo of the Day

2005-09-09T13:47:00.000Z

I'm making a list of all the things that flabbergast me about Dakar. I'm doing it now because soon it'll all seem normal and I won't be questioning why the cows are in the middle of the busy VDN street. Instead I'll be asking, "Where are the cows?"

Getting scammed in Africa

2005-09-08T11:01:00.000Z

It was our second night here and maybe we weren't quite hardened enough to blow it off. He first approached two students on the program who were hanging out by the gas station. His story: "I'm from Togo and I came here for work, but I didn't bring enough insulin, and I need to buy some more. Otherwise I can't go to sleep tonight." He took them to the pharmacy where the pharmacist said it would cost $100 to replenish his supply, enough for 20 days, enough for him to leave the country. He said he'd tried the hospitals and the diabetes clinics but apparently since he's not Senegalese they wouldn't help him.

It was S & M and they came to the internet cafe, on top the gas station, asking what they should do. It felt like an ethical dilemma: Is this guy for real? What if he really does need the insulin? But, everyone needs help around here; we can't save everyone in Africa. Certainly no single person has the money to give to him, but collectively we could easily come up with it. And that made us feel guilty.

We felt like it was legitimate, because he didn't just want us to give him money; he wanted us to come with him as he bought the insulin and watch as he injected it. And he kept pulling out his empty insulin bottle and his needle to show us. After some discussion, those of us sitting in the cafe, pooled our stipends for the week and gave it to him. It wasn't enough, but at least we'd given something. We all thought it was over.

As we walked back to the campus, those of us who had yet to encounter him in person, he stopped us and repeated his story, and we told him we'd already given money. He followed us to the campus and continued asking the other students from our program if they could help him. As we ate dinner. He stood outside. We all discussed it further. What should we do?

So finally those who had not given produced their meal stipends for the week and we finally had enough, enough so he could go back to the pharmacy and buy insulin. Problem: the pharmacy was now closed. It closed at 8 p.m. and it was now 8:30. At this point we were so far into it that we couldn't just let leave. We walked to the telephone booth to find another pharmacy. There he talked to some people who said there was a pharmacy a short car rapide ride away; and it was open 24 hours.

We parted ways then. It felt legit. And no one wanted to go with him in the car rapide to the pharmacy. So after 10 or 12 people contributed to his cause, he walked away with 100 of our dollars.

It was a couple weeks later in our security orientation that our director was telling us all the different ways to get scamed or to get pickpocketed. She mentioned this guy: "He travels throughout Africa, says he's from Togo, says he's a diabetic and needs insulin, is pretty believeable, will often grab his leg as if he's in pain." We all sort of sat quietly until someone said, "Yeah we know him."

How little it takes

2005-09-05T15:29:00.000Z

I remember a friend saying before I left for Senegal, "You will start to miss things about America. Even you, Michelle, will miss America." I scoffed at it then and even now I'm skeptical, but I will concede that there are certain luxuries I miss, and this weekend brought that into perspective. First, with the trip to quaint Goree. And then later, that evening, we ate at an Italian restaurant Chez Mimi's where we were somewhat delighted and perplexed not to find Senegalese food on the menu. I felt a bit guilty about caving in and having pizza after only two weeks here (and paying $8 for it, especially when you can get a good meal out for $2 here). And then getting wound up by the enticing espresso on the menu only to order one and find it's our formidable Nescafe.

Oh but it doesn't end there. We taxied ourselves over to a club called Chez Iba where we danced to Orchestra Baobab, Senegalese music with a salsa/world flair. My experience with the night scene in Dakar is still limited, but I can tell you that the way us toubabs (white people/foreigners) tore up the dance floor is probably pretty uncommon. We found out once we got there Orchestra Baobab is mainly popular with an older crowd and though they definitely had their groove on, they were much more subdued than our group of 15 jivving in the center floor, doubly affected by a low alcohol tolerance (lack of and malaria meds side effect?) and a need to seriously let loose.

Contemplating beauty on Goree

2005-09-05T14:51:00.000Z

I think we were all a little taken with the picturesque-ness of Goree Island, a small island about a 20-minute ferry ride from downtown Dakar. For the first half of the day I was poised diligently with my camera taking in the French colonial architecture, the beautiful cobblestone streets, the yellows/reds/greens of the painted homes, and constantly running into the sea. But it was later when I got out from behind my camera that I realized, "This is great, but only slightly unrealistic. Take me back to the fumes and trash of Dakar. Goree is for tourists." I think all of us have in our bag of "reasons for coming to Senegal" the fact that we came simply because it's somewhere not France. Senegal is often coarse on the surface and it's an adjustment for us "first worlders" to live here, but that's the reason for coming, to discover all what lies beneath this complicated culture (even if that means going without toilet paper) and not to be awed by the romanticism of Paris.

Nonetheless it was a good trip. I haven't been out of the city since arriving here two weeks ago and I especially enjoyed the ferry ride to the island. It's an island that is reputed to have been integral in the slave trade but I've read that not very many slaves actually were transferred through Goree. Most went through the coasts of Benin (Ouidah) and Ghana (Cape Coast), which I visited and the forts there were massive compared to the tiny "Maison des Esclaves" (House of Slaves) on Goree.

I think what I loved most was wondering down the small alleys where I'd run into regular people going about their day (sleeping, cooking, visiting, washing clothes). The sounds of chatter and vendors advancing "my sister, make me happy be my first customer" vanished and I was left with the sounds of the street and the never-distant sea.

Coming in on the ferry

Tree-lined, flower-lined street

Drums in the market

Taking photos

The group in front of the "Maison Des Escalaves" (House of Slaves)

See what I mean about picturesque?

Kitty chillin' in front of some paintings

Pretty yellow flowers add to the ambiance

C'est interdit! It's forbidden!

2005-09-01T13:51:00.000Z

In a country where alcohol is forbidden, I've never craved a beer so much. The temperatures and humidity have been crazy and even though I drink a lot of water--mostly luke warm water-- during the day, the idea of a cold cold something is tantalizing. So, some of us broke down yesterday and went to the "Salon de The Fast Food" on the corner by our school. Skunky beer out of frosted mugs never tasted so good. And even the flies jumping into our bottles didn't deter us from drinking every last drop.

Finding place in a new family

2005-09-01T13:34:00.000Z

I've been living with a family since Friday and though there's been some semblance of a routine I still mostly feel like I don't know what's going on, like who people are, who isn't related and who is, who lives there and who doesn't, when we eat, what we eat, where we eat. Last night was my host sister's birthday; she turned 23. We had a big party for her with people from the family (cousins, sisters, brothers, aunts, and who knows who else). My host sister, La La (probably not spelled like that, but that's how it sounds) is really into music; she loves to play the guitar and sing. So as a surprise on her birthday my host mom invited one of her favorite local singers, a man named Cher to sing.

It was a lot of fun to meet some of the extended family and to see how people interact and relate to each other and to also see my family break out the red carpet of food and goodies and other luxuries that we don't ever see (cake and soda pop). And as I was sitting there on the couch looking on as more and more people came in and fell into their tried and true familiarities and affections, I started missing my own family and my own people. It's hard to see that and be so far away from home knowing that even a phone call is difficult. But soon someone picked up the guitar and we started singing American songs and then learning songs in Wolof and singing happy birthday and I felt better and I felt like I could make a place for myself here.

This is LaLa; isn't she beautiful?

The American girl is Stephanie; she is also in the program and lives down the street from me.

This is the special guest singer, Cher.

The middle girl is Amina; she's my sister. The other two boys are neighbors/cousins.

Into the city alone

2005-08-31T12:10:00.000Z

Yesterday my roommate, another American in the same program, and I ventured out on our own. Both of us have traveled extensively. Her: backpacked Europe for four months by herself, travled to Morocco most recently. Me: France at 16, Germany twice, West Africa. We're both used to exploring countries and cultures, and this was the first time we'd traveled into Dakar on our own. I put emphasis on this simply because it's not easy to be white and to be female here. We attract attention everywhere we go and are constantly warding off advances from men, and if not men seeking American brides, then peddlers or vendors.

It was a relief to be away from a large group not just for ease of moving around but for the sweet taste of freedom. Picking up Lonely Planet and deciding to head to le Marche de Soumbedioune was the first independent decision we've made since we've been here.

We took the car rapide to the Medina, an older and poorer part of the city that you enter right before getting into the thick of downtown. Then we walked for several blocks to get to the edge of the peninsula to wear the fish market is and the adjoining art market. It's hard to sum up all that we saw. There's activity everywhere. Rows and rows of shacks with people selling everything one could possibly find used and new in this part of the world (bras, shoes, towels, underwear, peanuts, electronics). Then there's cars: SUVs, taxis (about every two cars), rundown autos, motos horse-drawn wagons. Then there's people fixing cars in the street, building statues out of wood, cooking food. And quite often there's usually just people sitting around doing nothing (usually younger men).

And it stinks. I'm not going to romanticize the smell. I think I took one breath the whole time I was downtown and that was only when I lost my footing and fell into a knee-deep hole in the sidewalk. There's rotting garbage, fish guts from the morning cleaning, sewer smells, fumes fumes fumes, and at one point, the fresh scent of newly-washed clothes blowing politely and innocently in the wind.

On our way back we heard drumming coming from down one of the streets, so we went to check it out, and found a group of teenage boys teaching younger boys how to play the drums. But mostly it was just an occasion for all the kids within hearing radius to come out and play and dance.

This is the drumming party.

My roommate, Zodiac, trying on a pagne (sarong) at the market.

The Grande Mosque of Dakar in the background.

A view of the point of the peninsula.

Trash, because it wouldn't be right without it.

Land of the car rapides.

Eating in Senegal

2005-08-31T11:19:00.000Z

Even though I can still probably count on my hands and toes the number of meals I've had in Senegal, I'll try to sum up what it's like. As a traveler, one of the first ways you experience the culture is through the food. I can tell you a bit what it's like to take a meal with my family, but from comparing with some of the other students, each family is different. For example, in our orientation we ate with our hands from a bowl, but so far in my family I haven't seen them eat strictly with their hands. Usually it's a combination of hand and utensil (most often a spoon). We always eat out of a large communal dish set in the middle and we eat sitting on the floor. Only the right hand is used around the bowl, which is a whole story in itself. With the idea being that the left hand is used for cleaning yourself after going to the bathroom (most people don't use toilet paper just a plastic pot filled with water).

Each person around the bowl has his or her own section. Usually the triangle area right in front of you. Since the plate it communal, it presents some difficulties, like how do you cut the choice meat in the middle of the plate or distribute the whole carrots. This is usually the job of the host. He/She will cut the pieces and distribute them in each section.

And unless it's breakfast, we don't drink with the meal. We drink either water or juice after everyone is finished. More traditional meals take three rounds of sweet strong tea afterwards. But my family only does that for special-occasion meals.

One of the nice things about eating on the floor is our table is moveable. So in my house we sometimes eat in the master bedroom, which is air conditioned, or sometimes out on the patio, but if it rains then we eat in the salon. It's a bit hard to digest your food in that position especially when my "maman" is constantly throwing food into my section urging me to eat more. This is apparently part of the Senegalese hospitality but it's really hard to refuse when you are actually full.

We eat a lot fish and rice and other meats that I'm not really sure I can identify. We don't eat much for vegetables unless it's one cooked carrot (that we all divide) or a side of greasy onions. But that's what fruit and mult-vitamins are for: supplementing my diet.

Sunday night was somewhat of a break in the routine. We ate millet and yogurt. Which I still haven't figured out. When I got to school Monday everyone was commenting about the "weird" dinner they had the night before with their family. My maman said we have it every Sunday. I'll have to ask her the significance.

Breakfast is the easiest meal and the most predictable. It's usually just baguette bread and a choice of Laughing Cow cheese/nutella/butter/jam.

I really enjoy taking meals with my family, and I enjoy eating communally out of the same bowl. It makes it feel like we're really sharing the meal together and it feels really special. Usually dinner lasts over the course of two or three hours. Mostly because we sit around awhile before the food is served (it takes a long time to prepare food here). Then quite often our neighbors come over just to visit. And the television is usually on though rarely is anyone really watching it unless there's a lull in conversation.

This was taken at the Baobab Center, a local cultural center, during our orientation.

Small things

2005-08-30T13:50:00.000Z

Because it's so hard to contemplate all that goes with having an experience like this, I'm sticking to the little things. I love the fresh fresh fruit (mangoes, apples, bananas) from the little fruit stands that are all over the city. It's fruit as it should be, exactly as it should taste, and it just crushes you with flavor and I think I'll never go back to supermarket produce. I love how each day walking to school is its own little adventure, especially when it rains and the streets flood and the sand turns to mud. The car rapides will always make me feel good on a bad day, I've decided. They're small buses absolutely packed and crowded with people in every possible corner. Yesterday I rode it in the rain and the flaps came down over the open windows and the little red light in the back partially illuminated us all squeezed one atop one aside. And it just felt like Africa; and it felt like I was apart of it. Last night I stood on the roof of our home with my new sister and stared out over the neighborhood. It was one moment of the day that I could actually say I was completely there, completely in the present and not worried about tomorrow or my "goals for my sejour in Senegal" or the countless other challenges that await me.

Traveling here, or anyplace, as a tourist is different than coming and staying for four months or ten months. I harbor the knowledge that I'm here for awhile and that I can take my time seeing and visiting and learning, but on the other hand I'm just as clueless as a tourist. And tourists can have their jollies in one or two weeks with that departure time always looming where I feel like I'm slowly running a marathon. Building myself up during these first weeks so I can have a foundation to live by over the next months.

I want to do it right while I'm here. Live everything. Live every moment so hard and so full, but sometimes it's easier just to sit on the terrace of my new home or to watch traffic in the quarter with the other people in the street. That's part of what I love about Africa, that the pace slows down. And I can't forget that's what I'm here to do, just to be here.

Here are a few images from the past week.

A little boy on the plane over New York.

Section of the beach nearest to the university. This is from my first day.

This is Tiebou Dienn (pronounced cheb-oo-jen). It's one of the traditional dishes of Senegal. In this picture we are learning how to eat it with our hands in addition to the many rules of "around the bowl" etiquette.

Before eating, the girls learned how to tie a pagne.

Here is small view of the university where I'm taking classes this semester.

A few people in the group during our excursion to downtown Dakar.

A neighbor girl who decided to plop herself down on my bed.

We went to the beach on Sunday. The waves were perfect and it was my first time swimming in the ocean. I loved it.