Jàngi na nuyu.

War naa gen dëkk bi!

2006-02-17T14:39:00.000Z

'I gotta get out of this town!' I've been especially bad at communication this past week, so if you're reading this wondering where the hell I am, what on Earth I'm doing with myself, at least know that you are not alone. Even the friends I run into here in Dakar - yes, I'm still in town - give me astonished looks. "You're still here!? Weren't you going to...??"

So here - if at all possible briefly - is the story. I'd promised myself, along with a good number of other people, that I would leave Dakar last Monday morning. After weeks of dawdling and discussion here in Dakar, I was finally to start the 'research' I'm hoping to do this semester. I'd hop on some form of public transport back to good old, broiling hot Tambacounda. From there I'd hire a taxi or combine a bus ride with some hiking to reach the village of Medina Kuta, on the northern border of Senegal's largest National Park, Niokola Koba. After that, the schedule of events gets a little more fuzzy, but I reckoned that I'd figure it out pretty quickly upon arrival.

The idea is to spend some time in this village and the surrounding area in order to specify what research I can actually accomplish while here. Going to Medina Kouta allows me to combine the 'official' support of the Non-Government Organization CRESP EcoYoff with the more helpful expertise of Prof. Cheikh Mbow. After 3 weeks in the area, I'll return to Dakar to - with any luck, "insh'alla" - write a nice, formal, academically-satisfying research proposal. After that I go back to Medina Kuta to do the real research.

By last Saturday morning, I'd started packing my bags, and was just beginning to worry about how to acquire a ticket for the 'express bus' to Tambacounda, when I was struck by one final, pre-departure task: I'd yet to change the date of my airline ticket back home. For the city of Dakar, this one yet another opportunity to snag me down, just as I was hitting the road.

As my pre-Senegal at least partially organized self, I booked my Senegal plane tickets well in advance, in April 2005. However at the time I was informed that it was impossible to book the return ticket for May that far ahead of time. I know some other folks who were however, able to do so, but I'll get to that point in a moment. So, happily I bought the return ticket for March 1 with the assurance that it could be easily changed once I was in Senegal.

With this in mind I hitched a taxi to South Africa's downtown office Saturday morning to take care of business "taf, taf" as they say here. Quite familiar with South African airways' various locations across town after the little Christmas hastle with my parents, I quietly entered the slightly run-down, glass-front office, sat down, and politely began the dialogue in Wolof. (to be finished)

Tilim na waay rafet na kay!

2006-02-06T18:30:00.001Z

'It's dirty, but sure is beautiful.' After all this talk of mourning, I'm going to move on to a subject that is more upbeat. What follows are some reflections on the Dakar city dump.

(Sorry there are no photos, but I'm planning a return visit to collect some.)

I visited the dump, near the village of Mbeubeuse, on Saturday with the CIEE Environment and Development class. I've been sitting in on the course to see what I'll be missing, and biting my lips that a class so relevant, informative, and well-taught has materialized now that I've quit CIEE. It appears packed full of interesting excursions and inspiring independant projects, but I won't mull on that.

Saturday morning, we trundled our way inland towards Rufisque, then turned off northwards into the chaotic, semi-formal suburbs that spill out from the Cap Vert penninsula. These hold Dakar's poorest inhabitants, who have flocked to the city since village life became economically unbearable during the '70s droughts. Not surprisingly they're also the site of some of Dakar's urban disasters: the horrendous flooding that took thousands of homes during the wet season, and the dump.

I thought pulling up to the beginning of the dump was a little bit like reaching the end of the road. It was one of those places where you can feel something arriving, never again to leave. In the case of the dump this thing includes household, industrial and medical waste, and a good quantity of raw sewage water. You know you are coming to the end when the road degrades into a steep series of humps and wet potholes (though its not rained in 3 1/2 months), then arrives at a shanty-town junction lined by tin and scrap-wood restaurants, mechanic shops, and offices. From there, the road forks right, and begins to mount the literal mountain of garbage that runs like a spine 7 km down the coast of Cap Vert.

We continued, pushing through drifting clouds of black, oily smoke from burning tires, scattering to avoid the ramshackle dump trucks roaring along with their cargo, responding to the challenging calls of the filthy people for which this world is home and office. And bizarrely, that's when it became stunning. Gorgeous. Perhaps my sense of ascetics has been tortured and warped by my prolonged stay here, but I'd honestly rate the dump as one of Dakar's most beautiful spots. The mountain of compacted garbage is some of the only high ground in Senegal. So as you climb the road, you finally see stretching off, what has surrounded and counfed you the whole time. At Mbeubeuse it was the jumbled, village suburbs pushing against the more built up quartiers on Cap Vert.

But the natural scenery was also astounding. We're almost halfway into the dry season, and I don't see how much is going to survive the remaining five months. Dakar is endlessly sandy and parched and greenery is hard to come by. But from the foot of the dump stretched green fields of lettuce, tomatoes, eggplant, mint - the location of which helps to explain why Dakar has had problems with cholera infected-vegetables. In the other direction, bright water shimmered under a thick canopy of palms, an oasis in this urban desert. Just before the sea, a long ridge of dunes is covered in dull green conifers.

All of this is thanks to the niaye that once sat on the spot of the dump. Niayes are wetland-lakes that hold onto some of their water during the dry season. Before Dakar happened, they were one of the distinctive natural features of the penninsula; it was in fact their greenery that gave Cap Vert its name. When the naiyes dried up during the '70s droughts, people feeling the pressure of a burgeoning population decided they would be convenient places to leave trash. The Mbeubeuse niaye was one of the biggest on the penninsula, and so the government decided to formalize it as the city dump. Now just about full, they're planning to create another in a village down the coast.

Mbeubeuse must have been spectacular before the dump, but I think the world of human waste that looms over it heightens its ascetic impact. The human brain seems to have a good sense of irony. The coctail of hormones and other biochemicals it excreted to accompany the contrast of filth and natural beauty led to an experience that was truly thrilling. I can't find the words to decribe the experience any further. Obviously this would be the one day I assume I could leave my camera behind.

Along the road that followed the crest of the dump we saw scavengers and recyclers, men of all ages and filthy to the bone, pulling and processing any piece of refuse that was of value: bottles, plastic bags, tins of tomatoe paste, scraps of wood and clothing. Burning down tyres in order to salvage the metal frame within. There were whole villages and workshops scattered amongst the rolling hills at the height of the proposterous mound of garbage.

After walking a kilometer down its back, we turned back half-traumatized. Our throats burning, our eyes sore, unnerved by the calls of the workers and by the trucks that nearly ran us over. Obviously disturbed by the conditions of dump life, barely tolerable for us, and yet a livelihood for nearly one thousand scavengers.

Afterwards, in strange contradiction, we descended the side of the mound a bit to find the Mbeubeuse community center. Clean and well-maintained, with a pleasant courtyard and a canopy for holding meetings. Its staff were well-dressed and spoke eloquent French - one even spoke quite fluent English! It stocked medecine at a community pharmacy and offered professional training, alphabetization, and even reproductive health classes for girls! Staff drank from a well only a few hundred meters from the beginning of the garbage. They explained that everyone knew it was contaminated, but the government would not give them the results of scientific tests, and besides, few people got sick. It was a strange, perhaps encouraging ending to a visit already ripe with contradictions.

We drove up the beach to eat lunch on the most beautiful and clean beach I have seen so far in Senegal, and then continued to visit the crowded, village-suburbs that have experienced the worst flooding this year. The flooding is also due to how people have used the niayes. In addition to dumps, they also became building sites for village immigrants during the '70s. No one ever stepped in to organize the housing, and so when the rains returned in force this year, and the ancient naiyes returned, people suddenly found they were living at the bottom of them.

The waters have now receded a bit. What we saw where algae-green marshes half-consuming houses in small hollows in the land, though people had already began dumping garbage in an attempt to fill them up. Dusty children chased after us shouting 'Toubab! Toubab!' as though we were in a remote village. We also visited the vast tented camps currently holding the flood victims. The government told them to clear out by January 31, but failed to construct new housing. Since camp conditions are better than those in the empoverished suburbs anyway, folks have decided to stick around.

So there. I've now dumped out my recollections and can get on with business here. To update actual events, CIEE's new professor for the environment course has turned out to be my best contact yet. He seems enthusiastic - and more importantly has a little bit of time - to work with me and knows intimately in region in which I might work. He advised me (as have many others) to just leave now to visit the southeast. Once I've found places to stay, contacts, and a more specific research topic than: "Connaisance communautaire des changes environnementales" I can return to Dakar to write up the details, read a few articles, and pack up my bags. I just need to finish my French CV and lettre d'introduction and give these to EcoYoff, the NGO which also seems enthusiastic - though has absolutely no time - to work with me. They do the paperwork and make the call to introduce me to the village of Medina Kouta, south of Tambacounda and on the border of le Parc National de Niokola Konda, and I'm off. See you next post.

Tënjjkat yi

2006-01-31T18:32:00.000Z

'The mourners.' (continued from the last entry)

No time was wasted the morning of Jean's death. The men of the house, being Jean's son Christian and Ernestine's brother Denis, moved straight into action as if the routine had been built into their bodies beforehand. After only a few moments of weeping, doors where propped open, the furniture hefted over to the neighbors', and plastic chairs rented out from across Mermoz. I tagged along, occasionally trying to ask how I could help.

In a matter of no time people were flowing into the house. At first I thought that as a member of the family, my presence was needed by my mother and grandmother. But with the entrance of each of Jean's or Ernestine's relatives or friends, I felt more and more estranged from the family.

I think now I better understand the limitations of fitting into a family in this culture. At the time of Jean's death, I'd lived in the Kayounga household for 4 months. I'd helped out with household chores and been helped a whole lot more with my own. I'd chatted and joked with Ernestine and Meme over lunches and dinners. I'd sought consel, been scolded, and given advice. I'd known Jean better than many in the last few months of his life. But when it came down to it, I wasn't flesh and blood. And there's no getting past that.

I was confused by the cultural rules and traditions governing the events after Jean's death and frustrated by the distance between me and the women of the house. While before I'd constantly chatted with Ernestine or Meme, now I could only offer hushed and formal greetings amongst a sea of guests. My presence in the house felt almost like an affront to the family. I was an obvious stranger surrounded by the hushed and disapproving mourners. I could not possibly explain what the heck I was doing amongst the family.

But let me get away from these gloomy meditations and explain what actually goes on in a modern day Senegalese-Catholic-Cap Verdian-Mankagne funeral. Beginning with Ernestine's simblings and friends from Dakar and ending with Jean's entire extended family from Casamance and numerous dignitaries from various stages of his life, the house filled to the brim with guests, and then overflowed.

I never thought I'd end up citing my Senegalese Society and Culture course, but a passage from Mariama Ba's "Une si longue lettre" stuck in my mind in the first days after Jean's death. After the death of her husband, Ba describes the friends and relatives who come to pay him respects once dead - and coincidentally, to drink and feast - guests who had never once visited him while sick. Ernestine had told me the story of how Jean's friends had abandoned him once he could no longer leave the house, and I could only bite my lip as those who'd never visited during my stay in the household now came to occupy it.

(more to come when I have the time.)

Sama papa wu Senegal dafa gaanu

2006-01-27T14:17:00.000Z

'My Senegalese father has died.' I knew my host father, Jean Kayounga, as the first person I greeted while easing shut the front door in the evening; him sitting in his plastic chair behind the dining table. "Bon-jour... Ça-va?" He spoke in plodding 2-syllable phrases, heavy with breath. I'd quickly shake his hand, correct the same grammar mistakes he'd make every night, and then move on to greet the rest of the family. I also remember him eating dinner across the table; lifting the spoon slowly as he tilted his head down to meet it; spilling varying amounts of his food onto the table, himself, and the floor; always eating a large second helping.

At first, the only explanation for Jean was that he was 'malade' but now I know more of the story. Jean had been seriously debilitated since he fell and hit his head in the shower more than twenty years ago. At the time he had been married to my host mother, Ernestine Kayounga, for only a year. Over the years, a combination Western medecine and Catholic prayers healed Jean to varying degrees, and apparently even allowed him to go back to work as a lycée teacher for a time. However for as long as I knew him, Jean walked stiffly by shuffling his right foot along, sat in his chair, and spoke only a few broken French phrases - though sometimes, in the midst of a conversation he would surprisingly grasp what was being said in French, Wolof, or his native Mankagne.

(My two families. From top left: my father Derek, my mum Judith, suma nijaay (uncle) Denis, suma yaay (mother) Ernestine, suma papa Jean, suma maam (grandmother) Meme (Marie), sama rakk (older sibling) Christian, and me. I'm sorry for blocking out Jean with my head.)

I didn't know how to feel about Jean, perhaps because I didn't know where I fit into the family. On occasions I deeply pitied him, and mulled over what I could possibly do to help. However to be honest, I was more often frustrated by the burden (physical, moral, and financial) he imposed on the family and the everyday annoyances he caused me: blocking the bathroom for an hour each morning, spilling and dirtying things around the house, shuffling into my room at 7 am to watch the sleeping figure of my host brother and his only child, Christian.

The morning of Jean's death, when I was woken up by the shrieks of Ernestine and Meme, my grandmother, the first thing I felt was relief. Ernestine would no longer pull double duty watching Jean and working full time, from 5 in the morning until 10 at night. Meme would no longer pace across Dakar looking for the next expensive perscription. The people of the house would finally have time for themselves.

But the grieving process here is intense, to say the very least.

Waay fate naa juli bi!

2006-01-13T18:40:00.000Z

'But I forgot about the festival!' In all my eagerness to get down the gritty details of Tabaski and to convey some of the amusement that Senegal provides on a regular basis, I completely forgot to explain what the hell this festival is actually about. I'm getting that out of the way here and now, hopefully in not too many paragraphs.

Tabaski is a huge festival throughout the Muslim world, though I've heard that outside West Africa it is preferably called simply Eid Kabir, 'The Big Feast.' It stems from (and forgive me my complete theological ignorance) when that one famous guy (Ibrahim in Islam) in the Koran/Bible/Tora was told by God to sacrifice his son. However, just as he was getting down to do the dirty business, God pulled a little switcheroo with a sheep. I believe that Christians and Muslims disagree on the name of the son in question, but its basically the same story.

Perhaps because this story emphasizes the necessity of absolute and unquestioning obedience to God - and the word Islam means 'submission to God' - the whole Muslim world prays long at the mosque and then kills off quite a significant number of sheep to recognize the anniversary of this event. (Though in a classicly Senegalese turn of events, not every country agrees on on which day this anniversary actually falls. Apparantly it all depends on the moon.)

Tabaski morning, before any of the slaughtering began, I watched just about every man in my neighborhood - and quite a few older women - stride to the mosque in their newly-purchased finery. Prayer mats were laid out in straight columns marching out north and south from the mosque courtyard. Traffic stopped, and in the streets and in the sand men stood, bent over, and pressed their forhead to the ground to the muezzin's rhythm: Allah akbar! - 'God is grand.' The rakkas of the prayer were slower and more attentive than ever I've seen before. Half of the faithful then left for their relatives' houses, while the rest sat quietly on their mats and listened to the sermon read in Wolof. Thanks were given for the plump sheep, prayers made for peace and health and money, and a touch of advice added on how much to donate to religious leaders. Of course, missing among the faithful that morning were the thousands and thousands who had emmigrated from the city in previous days, to spend Tabaski with wives and family in natal villages.

Mixed into this idyllic picture are of course details of human vice and silliness: the purchasing of boubous outrageously beyond one's means in order to show that one has the means; the equally outrageous purchasing of sheep; the careful distribution of meat to the needy and the Christian in order to gaurantee success for the 'giving' family; the increased crime leading up to the festival; etc. But I won't spoil (or enlarge) this quick entry with that. Tabaski is really what Senegal is all about: eating a lot, visiting your neighbors and family, and giving of what you've got.

Here's a little Wolof wisdom to top things off: what to say when you've eaten too much meat.

Xar bi moy ma mbekk! - 'The sheep is butting me!'

and the response:

Bu la xar bi mbekk! - 'Don't let the sheep butt!'

Naka lañuy rey xar

2006-01-12T18:38:00.000Z

'How to kill a sheep.' And as a Tabaski in Senegal will teach you, it's really quite simple. The following is an affectionately mocking step by step guide. This Tabaski tradition clearly isn't pretty, and while I've kept the worst of the photos to myself, I don't recommend this entry for the queezy.

1) Jendal ay xar - 'Buy some sheep'

These can be found in small herds sitting in the dust along most major roadways. Back routes and neighbors can also be good suppliers. A small splotchy male will cost you around 30,000 CFA, ($60) but if you really want to impress you're relatives you'd better invest in something a little more quality. Might I suggest a plump, handsome fellow who lathargically munches out of an old tire down the road from my house. He's scrubbed to a pure white perfection, and sports an impressive set of mangled horns. Yes, he'll set you back a hefty 80,000 or so, but just think of all the brochettes you'll have for your relatives, not to mention what you'll be able to give away to the Christians and poor folk in your neighborhood. If you're a minister or important official, you're more likely to invest in the extreme upper end of the scale, dishing out 200,000 or more for a real whopper. Keep in mind that you have to buy at least one sheep for each wife in your household.

(A freshly emptied sheep station on Tabaski)

2) Gasal benna kambb - 'Dig a pit'

Sheep killing is a dirty business, and without particularly efficient waste disposal services, you'll need to make your own arrangements. Fortunately, Dakar is full of dirt streets, alleys, and courtyards ripe for the digging. Don't worry if your neighborhood is pathed-over, you can always just hack up the road in front of your house, or else pry open a nearby sewage grate and dump down plenty of water once you're finished.

However, even with the best of precautions, the concentration of ship bits on Dakar's streets will inevitably rise after Tabaski. As long as you do your best, your neighbors will certainly forgive the occasional foot or horn that ends up in the side alley.

3) Jëngal xar bi - 'Tie up the sheep'

This is where the sheep's previously relaxed, uneventful life starts to go wrong. Senegalese sheep are accustomed to having their four legs tied together so that they can be loaded onto the rooves of ancient and precarious passenger buses for inter-city transport. However they seem understandably anxious about this event on Tabaski morning. At least they've led relatively quiet, normal sheep lives up until this point.

(This poor fellow's time is up. The first of four at my neighbors' house in Mermoz.)

By the way, if you're concerned about what to do with the sheep between buying it and tying it up Tabaski morning, have no worries. In Dakar, back courtyards, rooves, and even unfinished rooms in your house can serve as perfectly acceptable sheep pens. In fact, the constant, low-level baa-ing of the neighborhood flock is an icon of the Dakar night.

4) Boomal xar bi - 'Kill the sheep'

(11:30 am in an alley near my house in Mermoz. The baa-ing of previous nights has come to a rather abrupt end.)
This important step is happily done quite quickly over your pit. The requisite tools suddenly show up all across Dakar during the week before Tabaski. Vendors tote knife sets along rows of taxis and at bus stops, while others sit at intersections with piles of assorted blades, machetes, and even the odd hatchet to help get the job done.

A quick gash to the throat finishes off the sheep without much fuss, and be sure to keep as much as possible in the pit. Repeat this step as necessary until you run out of sheep.

5) Teegil der bu xar - 'Skin the sheep'

This step highlights traditional Senegalese values and gets the whole family involved. The men, sometimes instructing their older sons, get the skin itself off and do must of the rough cutting. This uses the small sharp knives you purchased along the road, if you could afford it. Otherwise it's going to be a rough job.

I've heard one report that miracles can be worked if you simply seal off the sheep's neck and insert a bicycle pump into a hind leg... However, not everyone agrees whether this is kosher with Islam. The hatchet will be useful in getting off the legs, as well as for the rather messy task of breaking into the skull. While seemingly non-essential, this extra step yields the small but delectible bits of meat that are vital to a good soup.

(The dirty work chez my neighbors in Mermoz.)
The various categories of cuts are sorted into plastic buckets and then passed off to the women and girls, who remove (only some portion of) the fat and bone, and prepare the meat for the grill. In the mean time the men wash up and get ready to do some serious sitting around.

6) Toggal yap bi - 'Cook the meat'

Another item that appears along the bi-ways of Dakar come Tabaski is the patch-work Senegalese grill. This ingenious little piece comes in many shapes and sizes, banged together from bits of scrap metal collected from aluminum cans, old appliances, and goodness knows what else. Filled with locally-produced charcoal, it certainly get the job done.

(Keru [the house of] Astou Ndiagne, one my kindest friends, who runs a sandwhich stand at Suffolk University.)

The choice meat is grilled as brochettes, while ribs and a fair number of organs (which are by no means to be considered less savory) are grilled and steamed in a pile.

To garnish, cook up a batch of potato fries cooked in peanut oil, a sweet onion yassa sauce, and (Alxamdulilahi!) in the case of the vitamin-conscious family I ate with, an astounding variety of chopped vegetables. But I must emphasize: all non-meat ingredients are to be considered strictly non-esential to this Tabaski feast.

7) Lekkal! - 'Eat!'

Serve in wide, communal bowls (seperate for men and women if desired) with mayonnaise and plenty of kani (hot pepper) dressing. Eat with your right hand, holding a chunk of fresh French bread in your left. If you're the sort of person who dreams of eating fresh grilled meat three times a day (and most Senegalese are) this will be the festival of a lifetime. Mine was a very happy Tabaski.
Reesal ak Jam! - 'Digest in peace!'

(Añ bi pare na. Lunch is finished. From left: Nathalie, Aram, Catherine, Ami, Astou's neice, Astou)

(Boubou time. Just before the children head out to levee a heavy tariff of money and candy. There are three festivals in Senegal that incorporate this Haloween-like element.)

Dem ak jam ak ñewaat ak jam

2006-01-03T17:13:00.000Z

'Go in peace and return in peace.' Of course this post is long, long overdue. But I'm not going to try to say everything; just the flat facts. I'm hoping that after this, I'll fall into a more regular writing routine.

CIEE's Fall 2005 program in Dakar is over and done. 25 of us have gone home to the U.S., 3 of us jumped to other African countries, and I've heard rumor that one person never left Dakar. From what I saw, everyone's last few weeks in Dakar were perhaps inexplicably wonderful. We fell in love with this city, in love with our families, and a few of us fell in love with Senegalese significant others. In fact I know of at least two people hoping to raise children here. If it's one of you reading this, all my love and support. It might seem totally mad to anyone who hasn't spent time in Senegal, and to any of us when we arrived, but today it makes a bit of sense. My time in the village of Ndiaguene hinted at how hard it is to leave this place without promising to yourself and to others that you'll come back some day. 'Damay ñewaat, Insh'allah.'

(Evening at the infamous 'On the Run' by the Route de Ouakam)
My last few weeks passed really well too, and all too easily. I finally realized what an incredible family I'd been living with; the best I could possibly ask for. In fact we all sat down and talked out every little fault we'd held against each other in the previous months - what hadn't been sufficiently washed/flushed, what was being left in the wrong place, which routines had been forgotten, and when I was coming home too late for dinner. Then we laughed a lot about all of these and talked about how much we'd miss each other.

In these same weeks I also faulted my family once more - I spent more and more and more time outside the house with friends, American and Senegalese. The pressure was on to get to all the restaurants we'd talked about checking out, have all the boubous and assorted clothings that we'd dreamed up made, and record the songs we'd put together with a certain street-corner gang. We also had to cram in the last of our old favourites: attaya, Mbalax/Cap Verdian dance parties, patisseries, and Dakar fast food. Not to mention, of course, seeing as much of each other as possible.

So that explains, though doesn't really justify, why I hardly wrote a blog or email throughout December. Then gradually everyone filtered out of Senegal on various late night flights. I myself went to South Africa to spend Christmas with my grandparents.

I'll give a quick rundown of my journey: My parents came to Dakar for three days to check out 'my life in Senegal.' On the whole, all went well. The hotel was fancy enough - AC, hot water, even jam and real coffee for breakfast - but it still had that vital touch of Senegalese-ness. There was plently of Wolof, a screwy reservation, and a massive over-charge on the rooms when we tried to check out. Being with my parents newly reminded me of the pollution and filth, the broken pavements, and the overwhelmingness of Dakar. But showing someone around also affirmed my confidence here. By the end, though my family was definitely more than sick of hearing me yelling in Wolof while waving my finger at cab-drivers, merchants, and hasslers.

(Classic Senegalese cart and pirogues along la plage de Yoff) The experience was capped off when we showed up at the airport at 4 am only to be imformed that although we held valid tickets for the flight to Johannesburg, we would not be allowed to get on. Of course this was all due to some screw-up 'in New York.' My attempted Senegalese negotiating, from false anger and threats to arm-linking friendliness and finally attempting to offer a bribe got us nowhere. Then a few minutes of my Mum screaming in French and English got her right on the flight. As 'componsation,' my Dad, brother and I were shunted off to the hotel Meridian President, spoken of with wide-eyes as the fanciest in Senegal. President Abdoulaye Wade even takes his motorcade there some mornings for breakfast. The place was nice, but not that nice. I did, however meet half the staff, who couldn't believe they were seeing a Wolof-speaking toubab. It seems only the fabulously wealthy and insensitive dain to stop at the Meridian. Fortunately, I was able to sneak out goodies: stationary, pens, soap, shampoo. Distributed to friends at Sadjo's corner, along with mythical stories about the rooms and service, these drew grins and rapt attention. Senegal finally let us go the next morning, on a plane that was for some reason half-empty.

South Africa was surprisingly normal - just as our other family trips. A few months in Senegal had given me a host of false expectations, however. I'd thought I'd be able to make all sorts of comparisons about food, language, dress, and culture. In the end, I was left a little shocked by western dress, well-maintained and garbage-free streets, functioning cars, segregation of race and class, and the looming threat of violent crime that made me uneasy about walking down the street. Perhaps most of all, couldn't believe how many white people there were and was disconcerted by the extreme lack of sheep. Though visiting my grandparents was at least as stressful and worrying as before, it was really good to touch back with my real family, 'sama wa ker degga degga' as I say in Dakar. Few Senegalese would question the value of spending much money and travelling far to see the family. Maybe a bit of that has rubbed off on me.
(I've posted some photos and explanations on my Flickr album, which is linked to the colourful, shifting photo box above in the right-hand column.)
(Christmas lunch with my grandparents in Durban, S.A.)

And now, I'm back in Dakar. It was strange and satisfying and lonely to come back. Things certainly feel quiet here. The good friends with whom I learned Dakar and through whom I understand Senegal are gone, and that's obviously a little hard. I guess I, like their other friends and family here, am clinging to their promises to come back. (Degg ngeen? Hear that guys?) But my family's overjoyed to see me and Sadjo and the gang are still out there all night - he'd missed two nights of sleep and was totally overexcited by music, fireworks, and people everywhere when I saw him at 4 am, New Year's morning. My January 1 was saved by my hair-cutting friend Delphine, who invited me to Goree Island for the afternoon. It was quiet and lacking tourists and hastlers, so we walked all over the island. Now I've got a bit more time to see my family, excercise, and check out a few more spots in Dakar. Yesterday I ran all over town to organize Pular lessons, and talk to a group called EcoYoff about volunteering/doing research in the Kedougou area for the next 4 months. But more on those plans later. Ba baneen yoon - see you next time.

(Hari Krishna temple / fabled vegetarian restaurant in Durban.)

Cookle namm cookle... cookle na kay!

2005-12-07T13:34:00.000Z

Pronounced ["choeckle nahm choeckle"] it's probably the best known song in all Senegal. Though to my foriegnor's ear it seems somewhat short of brilliant, it's catchiness is undeniable. Wherever a decrepid tape-player can laboriously churn through a hand-rewound cassette, 'cokle namm cokle' is boung to be in the air. As far as I understand, the English translation is approximately: "Is it great or isn't it?" but that doesn't exactly get to the heart of it.

Anyway, the song seemed as good a theme as any for the brief rural visit that took place 3 weeks ago. It was everywhere in the parched northern village of Njagenn, where Mike (the only other guy in the program) and I spent our four days. Young women spot us from their compounds with raptor-like vision or children chasing after us through the streets would invariably call out "Cookle namm cookle...!" and wait for a response. Our options? Either return the desired "Cookle na kay!" for the thousanth time, our enthusiasm waning, or else try to change the subject, thereby confusing the caller and provoking yet another 'cokling'. This sort of constant, bizarre, and amusing attention made time in the village exhausting, stressful, but hard to forget.

(Ewan and Liz picking off xarxam on the Thies-St. Louis road.)
We went up north in theory to work with 'Green Senegal,' an NGO that aims to 'promote food security and sustainability' in the North-western regions of Senegal. Our initial formation at Green's headquarters in the beautifully clean city of Thies had us thrilled. The elegant, young second director lectured to us on desertification in the north and gave us an intro to Green's work to counter it. We were broken into groups and given a strict schedule. We were to learn sustainable techniques for gardening in the dry season, teach them to new villages, give a presentation to the head of Green at the end.

I was completely enthralled. Ewan Robinson - who so prides himself on being environmentally aware - had been in Dakar for 3 months, entirely clueless about the state of Senegal's environments! This sort of situation required serious muddling, and I was known to randomly bring up the subject of desertification in even the most casual of conversations for the next couple of weeks.

(Isaa, from Green Senegal, lecturing on marichaige, winter gardening)
However, needless to say the initially clear, blissfully-organized prospects of Green Senegal never quite became reality. After a few hours (and breakdowns) along the Thies-St. Louis rode, we arrived at Green's regional headquarters in Mpal, and the filthiest apartment I've seen in living memory.

To get the general picture, imagine your living quarters. Now imagine them uncleaned for say, 2 1/2 years. Leave the remnants of meals on the table or kitchen floor, unplug your bathroom sink, and cease to clean the toilet. Cease to clean it. And stop flushing it too while you're at it. And if something were to, say, spill over the side, leave that there on the floor as well. Anyway, that starts to generate the feel of the place. This apartment was not, in fact, inhabited by deranged savages, or even U of I fraternity brothers. Instead this effect was achieved by every-day, middle-aged Senegalese men. And there's the problem: men. Men raised with no conception whatsoever of what cleaning could possibly be. A cultural blindspot; the natural state of the female gender. This I think goes to explain some of the incredible filth of Senegalese public spaces. Where women are excluded, tires, sewage, and skeletal automobiles pour in to fill the gap. But enough on that tangent.

Credit to Mike Holmes for the photos, which I nicked from his Flickr page. Check it out if you want to see more images from Ndiagene: http://www.flickr.com/photos/holmeslightfoot/

Korite yi neexoon nañu de - and that's plural!

2005-11-14T16:23:00.000Z

Korite is old news here. It's been more than a week since the festival, which - to the great embarrassement of some Senegalese, the great joy of others - happened twice. (see my last entry for explanation) The boubous that were bought at outrageous expense have been put away for the next wedding or baptism. (The next big festival on the Islamic calendar, Tabaski, is not an acceptable occasion to re-wear Korite boubous. Even more extravagant garmants must be purchased. I cannot imagine how impoverished families survive this celebratory double whammy.) Nonetheless, I'm only just posting my version of events. Last week passed in a mad haze thanks to an Islam paper, a Gender presentation, and a French test, (which turned out to be only 'entre parentheses') all compounded by my overactive sense of procrastination. Next we took a quick holiday to the Sine-Saloum region and today, finally, I have a free hour to write a post.

(Brittany and I in the courtyard of her extended family's luxurious home)
The morning of Korite, eager to don my first Senegalese garment, I awoke early and walked to the house of Jenise's family in Mermoz. I was hoping to make it in time to go to mosque with the men, and was expecting the whole house to be bustling with preparation. However, I arrived to find only Jenise's older brother Iddie in full outfit; the rest of the house was fast asleep. Despite the last night's promise, I was quickly informed that it would be too akward for me to come to the mosque. I've found this sort of apparently sudden change of heart pretty standard in Senegal, so I walked home relatively unphased. I watched the sandy square behind the mosque fill up with prayer mats, and men in their starched white sabadoors, and still made it home in time to eat a little breakfast.

I was planning to spend the first part of day with Brittany, another friend's, extended family in Jebel, so I arrived at her door at the stroke of ten, decked out in sabadoor, hat, and baboushes (Moroccan slippers). I thought I struck quite a figure, but Brittany quickly cut me down to size. She was under strict instructions from her family not to arrive in bouboued splendor. Instead, we were to bring our finest garments in a plastic sack. Though it bamboozled me, in Senegal it seems to make obvious sense: the clothes that cost most families several arms and legs are of course not worn proudly all day long. Instead, you sit around all day until 6:30, the last half hour of sunlight. Then you don your finery and parade around for a brief few hours, before abandoning the boubou to the next minor celebration. (it's incomplete, but see my flickr photos)
(Me and the nearly suicidally over-active children of my Mouride neighbors during Korite #2)

Baal ma aqq

2005-11-01T15:41:00.000Z

In other Dakar news, Korite, the festival at the end of Ramadan, is coming up on either Thursday or Friday. Apparently the date of this important celebration is fixed in most of the Muslim world, but here, as in so many other cases, Senegal does things a little differently. Each night this week, the 'grand marabout' (head boss) of each Muslim brotherhood will be fixedly watching the moon, trying to discern the exact moment when it is covered entirely by shadow. When this occurs, however late at night, Korite will be declared for the next day. This might appear potentially confusing, as the celebrations are supposed to begin at 6 am in the morning. To make matters worse, the 'grands marabouts' are likely to choose different days, in order to assert their authority over one another. However, like so much in Senegal that at first appears competely unreasonable, things will certainly work themselves out in the end.

You might expect a festival at the end of 30 days of fasting to be loud, colourful, and raucous, as are many such celebrations the world over. However, in classic Senegalese style, Korite is again, a little different. This Thursday/Friday, there will be no fireworks, no bands, and no grand parades. Instead, the day's main activites will consist of: (1) stuffing ourselves continually from dawn until dusk (actually the exact inverse of the current routine during Ramadan) and (2) going to visit all of our neighbors, dressed up in the finest boubous we can possibly (or quite possibly cannot) afford.

(Sunset over roofs near Suffolk University)
But to get away from this friendly mockery, there is a sincere aspect of the festival which I truly admire. When neighbors meet on Korite, they traditionally greet each other by asking pardon for the all the unrealized wrongs they have done one another. In this way, the small slights and annoyances that have built up over the year; the bickering, gossiping, and akward silences that inevitably separate neighbors; all are forgiven and forgotten, and everyone starts with a clean slate. The traditional greeting between neighbors might go something like this:

Dewenti. Baal ma aqq.
(Happy new year. Forgive me my wrongs.)

Baal naa la. Baal ma aqq.
(I have forgiven you. Fogive me my wrongs.)

Baal naa la.
(I have forgiven you.)

[together] Yalla nanu yalla bole baal.
(May God forgive us together.)

Jexugu toubab bu tey

2005-11-01T15:30:00.000Z

Here's the toubab joke of the day, though we've actually been chuckling about it for some time now. To the addled toubab mind, the innocent name of this Mermoz preschool becomes an inscription both morbid and foreboding. It's a bit mean-spirited, but it was humour like this that got us through some of the rougher initial encounters with Senegalese, and developing nation, culture. I was thrilled when I realized one day that I actually understood the title: Sunu+y = ours(plural); doom = child.

There's another nursery school, with an even more inexplicable name, just down the Route d'Ouakam: Le prescolaire Lady Oprah Winfrey. It's front wall is jovially decourated with a bright mural, showing children from around the world dancing and playing together. All of these schools actually seem rather sweet.

Dem nanu giis 'montagnes' yi - We went to see the mountains

2005-10-29T18:29:00.000Z

Well, we didn’t quite fall to the ground and weep at the sight of them, as does many a poor shepherd, according to my friend Sadjo Diallo, but after fume chocked Dakar and the vast dusty plains of the north, the low mountains of southeast Senegal were a welcome, even astonishing sight. If you haven't heard anything about the trip I took with two friends during our October break (and you're exceptionally interested) scroll down a few entries to read the facts before your attempt to finish this long, rambling description.

(Jenise and Maren on the path from Kedougou to Dindefelo. Note recently-purchased sleeping mats: the best 3000 CFA spent all week)

From Dakar, we sped farther and farther south in first one and then another battered sept-place (an ancient Peugot station wagon, pocketed with dents and bangs, producing inumerable strange sounds, and famous for swerving violently into oncoming traffic in order to avoid a pothole). Once past the transport hub of Tambacounda, I pressed my face against the greasy glass of the side window (for which I was grateful - the middle seat had only a wooden board). The forests of the bush became denser, the trees became tall and proud, and I recognized fewer and fewer species. As villages rushed by, the thatched roofs became round instead of square, woven from a new type of palm. As the first, rather tame hills appeared, we shook each other awake excitedly, and when the ground dipped away before us, just before we plunged into alarming turns, we held our breath to watch the bush slope away, thick and heavy with twilight. In Niokola Koba National Park, a grey troupe of (vervet?) monkeys scattered before us (our drivers philosophy was to always honk compassionately at animals in danger of being hit; but never to slow down). The monkeys had us laughing and clapping in the back of the station wagon, drawing tired looks from the young Senegalese men in the middle row: it was undenaibly a 'toubab moment.'

The first time we actually saw the 'mountains' was on a red gravel path through the bush to the village of Dindefelo, which took us all of one night and half the next day to reach, despite the assurance of multiple parties that it couldn't possibly be more than 2 hours. A line of bluffs and dense green along the horizon, these mountains seemed a far more appropraite border with Guinea than than the invisible line through the remote plateau beyond.

Alright, that's enough over-dramatic description for now. This may come as a surprise, but our trip didn't actually unfold like a Victorian travel journal. It was a bit adventurous at times, but for some reason never seemed beyond the believable.

Our initial intention was to bike from Kedougou, Senegal, at the end of the main road of Tambacounda, into the mountains of the Fouta Djalon and reach the town of Mali, Guinea. What's more, we were going to do so by leaving on Saturday afternoon and arriving on Sunday for Mali's big lomé (local market). Just to take it to that next level, we were going to do all this without a Guinean visa, by taking a bush track that bypasses the border post. As it turned out, this plan was a tad bit ambitious. Now that we're back, we better understand the exagerated gasps and bursts of friendly laughter we received from the old Peul men we passed on the rough path to Dindefelo. "These little toubabs, fresh in from the city, were going to carry their silly American bikes up all 8 mountains to Mali?? They must be crazy, and are probably capable of anything."

(above: walking my bike across the easy bridge en route to Dindefelo)

Jaay fonde

2005-10-25T16:45:00.000Z

Literally 'to sell porridge.' The Senegalese saying is that you can't lose when you sell porridge; either you earn a lot of money selling it, or you get a big butt eating it. Either outcome is highly desirable. Thus, to the never-ending amusement of us students, 'jaay fonde' can also be approximately translated as: 'big booty.'

Each day during Ramadan, Fatou Faye, a young Seereer woman, comes around to the Elton corner, dressed in a sheer brown boubou and carrying a large plastic bucket on her head. It's contents: chere, a Senegalese couscous made into porridge - fonde. Fatou is our official 'jaaykatu fonde.' The men at the corner generally buy one small packet each, and eat it eagerly from plastic cups with warm milk made up from powder.

Fatou is sharp and mischeivous. She has a wry, defiant smile and stands confidently with narrowed eyes and a cocked hip. Her voice is loud and has a nasal edge that dares your eardrums to oppose her. She jokes fiercely with the guards, exchanging gossip, harsh personal critiques, and lewd jokes.

It was last night while sitting around with the usual attaya folk that I haltingly made my first forey into the expansive realm of inappropriate Wolof jokes. I've only caught on to a few as they've flown by me on the street, but my joke seemed to be in approximately the same vein.

The joke struck me as Fatou and I were performing the normal ritual of exchanging greetings, she scolding me for not having printed the photo attached to this post. "Naka jaay fonde bi?" I'd started the sentence before I realized how it would end, and as I approached the finish I began to giggle at the absurdity of the joke and akwardness of my execution. The sentence finished, after a brief pause, everyone else broke into laughter as well.

The literal meaning of the sentence works as a polite inquiery: 'How's the porridge business going?' But colloquially it's pure smut: 'How's the big booty?'

Tanalaa tun? / Jam tun.

2005-10-22T20:08:00.000Z

Just a few words in the murmering song of the Pulaar dialect that is spoken in southern Senegal. Basically 'How are you?' and 'I'm fine,' though 'Jamm tune' seems to be an appropriate response to just about any question in Pulaar. No, this post is not in fact going to explain much of anything about the week long trip from which I returned, one day early, last night. It's actually just intended to let anyone who is desperately worried (sorry to single you out Mum and Dad) know that I am still alive.

Its second slightly more devious purpose, in classic Ewan style, is to plead for an extension on the trip report. My excuses? I'm still trying to comprehend my week in traditional, remote, and dare-I-say-it mountainous southeast Senegal as I navigate the newly unfamiliar landscape of urban, Westernized Dakar. It's surprising how easily round thatched rooves, the sound of millet being pounded, and a horizon of acacias replaced in my memory the mounds of half-finished apartments, the filth of traffic jams, and the flashing colours of the boubous worn by wealthy Dakaroise.

(waking up in the campment of Abduhl, a Peul boy watching his family's herd of goats and cows) I can say that the South wasn't nearly as hot as constant comments had led us to believe. In fact, our sweat-habituated bodies sometimes shivered on their mats when cool night winds blew down from the Fouta Djaloum mountains in Guinea. I've posted these photos either stave off your demands or to whet your appetites, depending on how you see it. For my own sake as well as yours, I'm going to put aside time to write up some of the trip's important stories later this week.

(Jenise and Maren with Doba Diallo, our guide and friend [at right in white T-shirt] and some of the younger members of the village of Dandé)

Dafa tang foofu! - It's hot there!

2005-10-13T23:08:00.000Z

So, in my last 11 minutes on this rickety computer I'm going to try to explain where I'm off to next week.

We have a one week break from classes to scatter away from Dakar and my friends Jenise and Maren and I (and apparently a good deal of others) are scattering off to rather rural southeast Senegal. Tomorrow we will attempt to board a 'sept place' - small station wagon bush taxi - and will swerve through 8 hours of ?foie de gnis? (pot holes) to get to Tambakounda in the south, then a smoother 4 to Kedougou.

In Kedougou we hope to meet my Senegalese uncle, who teaches English, and hopefully find the Peace Corps center. If we're lucky, we'll be able to rent bikes. (the kind with rubber tires and perhaps even breaks!) After that our plans kind of break up into a vague slushy of pipe-dreams: Bike into Guinea to the market at Mali; swim under the waterfall at ?Binginfufi?, perhaps make it to the remote eastern villages, many of which are from the Bassari ethnicity and are still animist.

So I'm fresh back from the centre-ville, where my very calm, sweet uncle Denis took me to get my hair cut. The shortest, straightest thing to be found on my head since early high school. Still, sitting in a rickity old elevated barbers chair, a burly Cape Verdian meticulously going over my head with at least 3 pairs of scissors and 3 razors, one of which was the real, old fashioned, sharp kind. I was shivering with thrill at the experience, and the fear of blood-born illness the whole time. Hearing his philosophy on cutting hair in English and creole Portugese to the amusement of my uncle was a memorable experience.

And I feel more prepared with this short mop, along with a large straw hat (which looks a lot more 'gaucho' than 'baaykat'), for the promise that no person has failed to give us about Kedougou. Dafa tang! - It's hot!

Samay xaritu Senegal - My Senegalese Friends

2005-10-09T13:17:00.000Z

I think it is when I am with my Senegalese friends, more than at any other time, that I feel I am getting 'past the surface.' Though I haven't exactly met them in throngs, it has been incredibly reassuring to feel I can really trust someone, and talk to him seriously.

It's a relief to know that what awaits me on the other side of the initial greetings is more than such convertsational classics as "You're not French, right?" "Senegal is really cool!" or "America is perfect. Your life is perfect, too." Then, of course, there's the persistant, "How about all the beautiful girls in Senegal? Don't you want to marry that one? No, of course your American 'fiancée' isn't enough; you need someone here!" (To clarify, my girlfriend and I are not engaged. However, calling her my fiancée at least diffuses the preceeding conversation before it escalates into marriage arrangements.)

But back to friends. I'm writing about them first, before describing my neighborhood, my family, or my classes partially out of an obstinant refusal to do things logically, but also because they are the most important reminder for me, that I am 'actually here' - that my life here is legitimate and progressing normally.

This is my best friend, Sadjo Diallo. He is a jaaykat, a street vendor on a busy corner near the modern Elton gas station. Mounded up on his cart are found a hundred kinds of sweet cookies; plastic-wrapped batteries; bitter white kola nuts from Nigeria; green bananas and spoiled mandarins; along with incredibly popular American and less-known Senegalese cigarettes. In addition there are tiny bags of pon, an as of yet unidentified substance that is rolled into cigarettes. Everyone here calls it tabacco, but we believe, since it is evidently produced from the leaves of a giant tree, that it may not in fact be Nicotiana tabacum. These varied goods are currently supplemented by sweet, dried dates, which are purchased in great quantities in the late afternoon, used to break the day's Ramadan fast.

Sadjo is 21 years old, though his weathered face and distinct lack of teeth led me to vastly overestimate his age at first. During his life he has been an apprenti on the car rapides, worked as a street mechanic, driven a taxi in Mauritania, and lived alone in the rural southeast of Senegal, watching his family's herd of cattle.

He's a strict and persistant Wolof instructor, insisting that I write down each new lesson, and he's also taught me how to make attaya (Senegalese tea). In return, I'm helping him with his English, which already isn't bad. I'm trying to focus on practical everyday phrases, such as "Hey driver, grab some kolas and let's hit the road!" I also try to assist in selling his wares, though my slow comprehension of Wolof numbers (whose normal meaning changes when they are applied to sums of money) and my clumsy fingers mean that I quickly frustrate the taxi drivers waiting for their handful of cigarettes.

Anyway, I sit out many nights with Diallo, as he's called, and a whole group of people - guards, peanut vendors, contruction workers, and passers-by who find themselves inexplicably thrown together at the corner. We drink the three, slow rounds of attaya, practice our languages, and discuss the business of Dakar, the qualities of friends, and whatever strikes us as most important in life. A few days ago we lost Moustapha 'Six' one of the guards from the group, and a friend. His company posted him to Richard Toll in the far north of Senegal, to guard a sugar factory. This genuinely saddened me, and it felt very good to realize that I really care about my friends here. Perhaps Diallo and I will make a trip up north some weekend to visit Moustapha.

(At the Elton corner, from right: Aissatou, unknown, Aissatou's younger son, Moustapha, Moussa, Abdhul, Sadjo, unkown, me, Aissatou's older son)

I'll write about one more friend: Bouboucar Ba, the young boy who works in a boutique near my house in Mermoz. He was born in Guinea-Conakry, as it's called here, where he went to primary school. Once he was older, however, his father moved with him to Gambia so that he could attend an English-speaking school. Bouboubar lived there for several years, making it to 5th form. However, his father died last May, leaving him with no family and nowhere to live. He came to Dakar to stay with the Ba's, family friends who could offer him a job in their boutique. He stands at the counter during the night's long hours, quickly dishing out supplies to patrons from the packed shelves behind him.

I was drawn to him because of his English, but also because of his sharp and defiant manners. When I initially tried to haggle over his goods, he halted me fiercely, explaining with pride that God was watching him, and so he could never inflate a price for a toubab. Bouboucar now earns 20.000 CFA (40 dollars) a month, and is saving to attend the British Academy school in Dakar. I go to see him quite regularly to ask how work is coming along and give him a chance to practice English. When he heard that I'd taught an English lesson at l'Ecole de la rue in the Medina, he asked if he could come along the next time. Right now, I'm a little afraid to return to his shop, however, as I promised I'd have this photos printed out for him a week ago. He will not let me off easy on this breach of trust.

Juroom benni semain - 6 weeks

2005-10-03T20:04:00.000Z

Being here is no longer something new. Walks along the fume-choked Route d'Ouakam have lost their awe, and the scenes of daily life along the sandy streets of Mermoz have ceased to fill me with delighted surprise. Even the tickling thrill of an unexpected French encounter beside a fruit stand or boutique has drained away, and I'm quite settled into the daily comments and chores of my host family. For the greater part, I fill my days sitting in classes, eating fruits, working on emails, waiting on benches, walking from place to place.

In short, I've broken into the routine of everyday life. And shockingly, it turns out to have a similar feel, even though I'm living in such a distant place, within such a different culture. Sometimes I even get bored, believe it or not!

Why oh why did I wait until now to begin a blog?? I can only dodge personal responsibility and lay blame upon my irrational and contrary objection to the newest technological fads. But now I'm well beyond my initial thrill and first avid, breathless descriptions. I've lived through, without documentation, my great crash of confidence and subsequent battle with digestive malfunction. What I now have to write about is more... complicated. I'm trying to organize my daily life, finish papers and applications for internships, trying to put my finger on what it is that I'm just not getting. I'm trying somehow to break a surface that I cannot describe. (below: Oranges du pays in my back courtyard)

It was witnessing the undoubtable success of several of my friends' blogs that finally conquered my cynical resistance. Their crisp, colourful entries, laid out neatly beside illustrative photographs, have trumped my scraps of journal paper and photocopied letters. In theory, this blog will make me organize my experiences and lay them out coherently. Hopefully, if I can explain them to you, they'll make sense to me as well.

An introduction? I'm here in Senegal through the CIEE Study Center on the Sufflk University Dakar Campus. The program itself is pretty straight forward: we choose 15 hours of classes, live with host families, take excursions. Not quite the romance of the SIT or MSID programs, with months out in the field and a grand independant project, but hopefully I'll be able to work a little of that in on my own. So, I'm picking up Wolof, trying to polish my French, and begin to understand how this world works. So, despite my fierce, indignant resistance, here it is: a blog on my 9 months in Senegal.