rain and rams

The last time it rained was October 11. The harmattan wind is here and the combination of wind and dust is rough on the eyes.

In other news Tabaski is on January 31. There are rams in every once empty space. They are having a ball during their last week alive defecating everywhere. My household will be killing two of them. I am not looking forward to eating mutton everyday until it’s finished.

Mymunah, Rakkhi, and Sufi take on Senegambia

Over my winter break I went to the Gambia and Ziguinchor in the Casamance region of Senegal with 2 friends, Emily and Caitlin. We took a seven-place Peugeot taxi to the Gambia. The three of us were cramped in the back seat, which was elevated above the other seats. Our driver had a penchant for driving in adjacent fields instead of staying on the bumpy pothole filled roads. When we go to the border of Senegal and the Gambia we were greeted in English. It was shocking, bizarre, and disconcerting for me to hear English being spoken by Gambians. I cannot figure out why it was so hard for me to swallow but I just could not get used to it. I also could not get used to English and Wolof being mixed together. I am too accustomed to “city Wolof” which in Dakar means a mix of French and Wolof that most people speak. Banjul, the capital of the Gambia, was unimpressive. It resembled an overgrown village with dusty streets and shops that close at 7 pm. We left Banjul early because of the lack of activities and headed to Serrakunda, which is a village/city transportation hub. The road to Serrakunda was the worst I have ever experienced bar none. It was so awful that I cannot begin to describe the size of the potholes. While in Serrakunda, we visited an animal and nature preserve, which reminded me of a rainforest hike in Costa Rica. The most exciting part about our time in Gambia, in my opinion, was seeing monkeys. While the Gambia was lush and beautiful outside of the cities, I was relieved to leave. I never thought I would be so excited to be back in Senegal, speaking “city Wolof” and being accosted by men calling me ‘Madame.”

I think one large difference between the Gambia and Senegal boils down to colonialism. It is obvious when visiting the Gambia that the British only wanted the land because of the river, which bisects the country. The only thing that they gave the country was churches. There were more churches in Banjul than imaginable for a predominately Muslim country. The British put no effort into development or schooling. The roads were horrible, the buildings are dilapidated, and the list continues. The lack of schooling is evident in the signs hung from stores and restaurants. I have never seen so many spelling or grammar errors in my life. Ironically, even the department of education building had an egregious grammatical error. We ate at a restaurant that advertised “stake and chips” and past several barbershops that offered, “barbering” as well as being called saloons. To me, it shows that the English just took what resources they could from the Gambia and left the people there to handle the consequences and be poorly educated. At least the French educated Senegalese people while raping their resources. It is said that Senegalese speak better French than the French.

Casamance is an incredibly beautiful region. We had an amazing experience in Ziguinchor, which restored my faith in Senegalese terranga (hospitality). Emily, Caitlin, and I were in search of the river so we could sit and feel at peace instead we happened upon Emma. Emma is an amazing woman who invited us into her house to meet her family. After greeting about ten members of the family we stopped to talk her wheelchair bound grandmother who lived in Italy for 35 years. I think we really bonded with her and her older sister. We were invited to stay for lunch, which we politely declined but drank some homemade palm wine and promised to return the following day for lunch. We did and ate a delicious dish from the Casamance. Later we went to Christmas mass with the family, since they are a Catholic family. After mass we celebrated and danced in their living room until the wee hours of December 25. We came back the following day to help prepare lunch and to say goodbye. It was such an incredible experience to be welcomed into a stranger’s home whom wants nothing but to talk and get to know people from other cultures. It was also nice to get to know people in the area and learn about them. Being with Catholics was a big change for us since the three of us live in “very Muslim households.” Emily (Mymunah), Caitlin (Rakkhi), and I (Sufi/ Sophie) gushed for hours after first meeting the family about how generous they were. We could not get over how open and kind these people were to us. It was very hard to leave them. If we want to we can go to Emma’s sisters wedding on January 6 but after taking the 16 hour boat back to Dakar, I don’t think I am up for the trip.

noises all around

Below is a list of common Dakar sounds:

• The call to prayer at about 6, 2, 5, 7, and 9
• The shuffling of the Senegalese slipper shoes
• Honking taxis
• People talking at all hours under shady trees
• Cats fighting
• “Salaam Maalekum”
• “Toubab!” “Toubab!”
• Cars with rattling parts barely making it to their destination
• The “flop” of plastic flip-flops
• Pots clanging in the kitchen cooking up a new dish of cebbu jen (the rice and fish dish I eat once a day)
• “Madame, donne-moi cent franc.’
• Hand-held brooms sweeping the floor or sidewalk of sand, dirt, and leaves
• A car rapid apprenti yelling “Dakar, Dakar” or “ Foo jem?” (where are you going)
• Goats bleating
• A lone rooster that crows only in the afternoon
• Motorcycles, motorbikes, and scooters speeding down my road
• Horse drawn carts clomping away carrying watermelons or empty soda bottles
• “Wa’Allah, cherie, je te jure.”
• “Kaay lekk” (come eat)
• The crazy man outside of the Karak mosque who screams the prayers about 2 seconds behind the Imam in the harshest voice I have ever experienced. The first time I heard it I was afraid for my wellbeing. Now whenever I hear him I can just laugh like everyone else.

marabouts

This post is obviously my personal opinion and is tainted by my American perspective. With that said:

My group went to Sokone, a beautiful village in the Southeastern part of Senegal in a region called the Saloum. My group went with our history of Islam professor and one of the student coordinators. We had a wonderful time because of the beauty and peace that was omnipresent. We ate good food and slept well despite a loud obnoxious donkey whose bray sounded like it was in my room. The trip to Sokone, which took about 6 hours in total, provided us with landscapes and sights we had never imagined. Such sights included pigs (I can’t figure out what purpose they serve since Muslims can’t eat pig byproducts), a baobab tree forest, huts, a body of water which evaporated leaving salt in its place, and my favorite- a live goat tied to the top of a car with its ears flapping in the wind and body protected by a blanket.

One of our mini trips was to a bird-hatching island, which lies on the delta between a Senegalese river and the Gambian River. The island receives about 40,000 birds a year who migrate from the Netherlands, France, and Belgium etc to hatch their eggs then return to Europe. The island was very flat with lots of crabs. We walked around it through viney plants and sand. The island did not have one tree on it which seemed counter intuitive to me because I associate birds with trees. Supposedly the birds build sand pile nests and lay their eggs there. Unfortunately we did not see one bird on the island because it’s not hatching season. We see evidence that the birds had been there thanks to a copious amount of bird droppings.

The main point of this entry however is to talk about our visit to see the Sokone marabout. Marabouts are a synthesis between Senegalese culture and Islam. They are spiritual leaders who have mastered the Koran. There are many kinds of marabouts. If you have a need like finding a job you go to a specific marabout, if you want to win an election you go to another. Some marabouts are more powerful than others. President Wade has his own marabout, as do some soccer teams. Before exams, many students visit marabouts to get their blessings. Marabouts will bless them and make them do or buy certain things to have their blessing work. Some people have to wear gris-gris; others have to write a section of the Koran on an egg, others have to cleanse their bodies at weird times in public spaces. I find it mind-blowing and ridiculous because it’s all a mind game. If you believe in it, it will work. People pay enormous sums of money in order to see these marabouts and do their tasks. Some marabouts tell their customers to find objects that are impossible to find in Senegal others refuse people if they cannot pay their fees. In the end marabouts win because they make money and if their “power” did not work they can either blame it on the customer saying he or she didn’t follow his directions or he can say that it wasn’t gods will for the action to take place.”

Another job the marabouts have is to teach the Koran to children, called talibes – talib is student in Arabic, in special Koranic schools. Parents, especially those from villages, send their children to marabouts to be taught the Koran. There has been a trend in recent years of many marabouts taking advantage of the distance between parent and child and send the child to beg and not teaching him the Koran. All of the begging talibes are boys. It must be noted that a part of Koranic school is begging because Islam teaches people to be humble and begging is a form of humility. The system works because one of the five pillars of Islam is to give to those who are in need. The system of begging and giving this perpetuates. Normally these talibes should be studying from 6-12 then go beg for food. They then restart studying in the evening. Instead, many marabouts only lead about an hour worth of class a day and the talibes who range between the age of 4 to 24 beg between five to ten hours a day. The money they get goes directly to the marabout whom buys cars, houses, and feeds and clothes his wives and children. Talibes are given a quota, which they must fill daily. If they do not make enough money they are beaten or not given food.

There are hundreds maybe even thousands of talibes in Dakar. I am sure that not all of them are under the direction of corrupt marabouts but many are. Daily a little boy follows me down the street asking for money. “Bonjour Madame, cadeau?” Or “Madame, donne-moi cent franc”. They look up at me with wide eyes, their lean bodies with scars and cuts, standing clothed in tattered tee shirts and hole-ridden shorts, most of them not wearing shoes. It is a heartbreaking moment. I usually give them my small change because I cannot bear to just leave them standing there. These boys suffer too much. A turning point for me was one day I was sitting on the balcony of my house, which looks onto a busy road. I noticed a group of talibes with their tin tomato cans walking down my street. There were about seven of them ranging in age from about six to fourteen. They were kicking and bouncing this one tiny little ball amongst themselves. They were just having fun and playing. It is such a rare sight to see talibes smiling or just having fun. It was at that point that I became extremely outraged at these marabouts. They are taking these boys childhoods away from them sending them out on the streets. I realized that the money I used to give them was perpetuating the system. I decided instead to use the money I would have given them to buy them peanuts or other goodies. This way I am feeding them, punishing the marabouts, and supporting local vendors. I cannot even begin to explain how quickly the talibes eat the peanuts.

In any case my group of nine female college students went to visit the Sokone marabout. As we pulled up to his modern house juxtaposed among the huts we were instructed to put on floor length panges. Panges are wrap skirts that can be worn as normal skirts or as clothing protectors. All of us, even though we were all wearing “appropriate” knee covering skirts or pants, had to put them on. This was my first annoyance; the second was when we were instructed to curtsey when we entered the room where he was sitting. I find the curtseying I see to be demeaning. Religious women curtsey when shaking men’s hands but don’t with other women. I know I am making a cultural judgment but it drives me crazy. The last thing I wanted to do was curtsey to some corrupt man while wearing a skirt that was way too long for me. My blood began to boil as I entered the room and took a seat. The marabout was wearing a lavish boubou with yards of fabric in the pure white color to denote he has been to Mecca. He was wearing an outrageous black fez with a long tassel that swooshed when he moved his little head. He basically preached to us from his seat telling us that we are smart for studying other cultures. Then he led a prayer. When everyone turned up heir palms to receive his words I felt like running out of the room or simply starring at him instead of accepting his words. I couldn’t, however, bring myself to be that rude so I turned them up not listening to him thinking to myself how Islam is killing Senegal. When the prayer was over I looked down at the hands of the man next to me who was out hotel owner and guide. In his hands was an envelope full of money which he discreetly past off to the marabout as we were leaving. I tried to leave his house as fast of possible. I was shocked. Customers pay marabouts not visitors and we just went to say hello to him. We did not ask for his blessing nor did any of us have any interest in meeting him. The more I think about it, the more horrible it becomes. If you visit a priest, rabbi, or minister you would not even think about paying them. It is just not done, not even here. Why are marabouts so different?

whistle while you work

There has been an onslaught on work being done to my house in Dakar. I have observed painters, construction workers, masons, people who put tile down, and electricians and I have come to a conclusion, Senegalese workers do amazing work under relatively unsafe conditions. I remember the first day the construction workers showed up at my house. One was wearing jeans and sandals, another shorts and sneakers, and the last pants and sneakers. There was not a hardhat, protective eyewear, pair of work boots, or metal ladder in sight. The men built a ladder out of scrap wood and began tearing away at the wall with a pick ax. They created holes in the wall to place beams. The beams were use to make a temporary place for them to work from to make an extension to our balcony. One man, who had a singing voice better than Paul Robeson, climbed up on the shaky planks hammering and singing away. I was certain he was going to fall or impale himself on one of the metal supporting beams. As the plaster went flying the men on the ground dodged the larger pieces. The scene reminded me of images I have seen of men building the Empire State Building. It was an incredible and exciting sight because of the danger and risk of every movement. They worked throughout the day never pausing always moving. They arrived every morning at 8:00 and left at 5:00. I was shocked when they showed up to the house on Sunday morning and worked until 2:00. The work they did is incredible with nice details and smooth lines so figuring out where the addition starts is impossible.
I am always shocked when I see people working with electrical appliances here because they have no fear. I have seen people put live wires in their mouth, prod the interior of appliances with metal objects, and splice cords like it is nothing. Today a man came over to fix out television, which died because of all of the power outages. The television was plugged in and he was poking the inside with a screwdriver like sucking on the end of some cord to get sparks. I sat watching him in terror ready to jump up and call the ambulance. Yesterday our electricity went out which was actually surprising because it has not gone out in about a week. We realized that something was wrong when there were only four houses on our street without power. My host mom went to investigate and found that someone had tampered with something outside of our house. She promptly found a large knife and scotch tape and cut and spliced some wires. She reset the power and boom we were back in business.

boob tube

In the US we think we are the grand kings of TV watching but the US has nothing on Senegal. This differs from family to family, of course, but I would say overall that if there is a TV in the house it is probably on all the time. In my house in Dakar my host father and our maid are the only people that watch television. Any free moments they have are spent in front of the TV. In Yoff, however, the TV is rarely shut off- anything that is shown we watched no matter the content. From cartoons to scary movies to soccer or wrestling matches a mixture of family members and friends could be seen in the plastic chairs or little wooden benches transfixed to the television. If the power goes out people sit in their usual spots waiting for the power to be turned back on. What makes it even stranger is that all of the TV shows, movies, and commentary is in French and only half of the people in the Yoff household understand French. Most of the commercials are in Wolof. The constant noise of the TV usually drives me crazy but I have learned to ignore it. It also helps that the volume is never very loud because most people do not need to hear what is going on because they can’t understand the French.
The most popular things to watch are dubbed (everything is dubbed). Mexican and Spanish soap opera are the new craze. Ruby (my namesake) is the most popular and is the subject of many conversations. I once watched desperate housewives with some ladies in my house and was embarrassed by the blatant sexuality and overt racism inherent to the show. Even the married women wouldn’t look during the kissing scenes. Movies are very popular and come on at all hours despite their violent or scary content. One morning before school my seven-year-old host sister and I watched a bit of the Ring Two and another afternoon we watched some horribly violent movie about a place crash. Senegalese children, on general, do not go to bed early like American children not surprisingly this is not accounted for so nightmare causing shows like SVCU or “cold Cases” are shown at 9:00 pm.
One must note that if there is a soccer or wrestling matches on and a particular cousin or brother is present they usurp the TV to watch it. My poor little sisters suffer through match after match waiting patiently for it to be over so they can go back to dancing to music videos.
I was once in a North African hang out spot, which had, a TV mounted on the wall (very rare). At first I ignored it like at all other times, but then I became engrossed when I realized that American football was being shown. It was two very arbitrary teams who meant nothing to me. What was weird was that it was a Thursday and the caption, Monday night Football kept popping up. After the game needed a show from MTV called Room raiders aired. That show is unbelievably stupid. The premise is that either a man or woman gets to raid three candidates’ rooms and choose a partner based on what she/he has found. The people who rooms are being scoured watch their belongings being manhandled and make absurd commentary. There are always illicit and incriminating findings. It is a show that displays the effects of being in the MTV generation. Smarts are not valued but bodybuilding and cool clothing is. After that show was over some terrible movie came on. I concluded that the eclectic mix of shows could only work on the same station is the station was called “What’ Wrong with America.” And they wouldn’t be too wrong.

viewing books: showy wonders

Photo albums here confuse and bother me. These albums are almost always owned by women and are a compilation of photographs of them. They are the most vain things I have ever encountered. In addition, they freely hand the albums out to their friends and family who look at and comment on the photos. The albums almost solely contain pictures of the owner but sometime a friend or family member appears in the picture. You have to see these albums to believe it.
These women are usually very modest; so modest that they cover their head when they leave the house, much to my dismay. The modesty is there until a camera gets pulled out of a bag and then these women turn into supermodels- posing like pros. I was looking at my host aunt’s album of her wedding and it was picture after picture of her posing in different positions – the smile-over-the-shoulder, the I’m-fixing-my earring, the menacing smile, the surprised look, etc. Her pictures included her bridal party who also posed like she did. My host mother’s albums contained the same sorts of poses except she seemed more fond to show off her gold baubles. Sometimes a picture of my host father and her would creep onto a page. He was always sitting stoically next to her, without a smile on his face but his eyes wide open. With the turn of the page he would disappear and she would pop back up in a different dress.
Don’t be fooled these books are not just endemic in my Yoff household. I have seen similar ones from the maid in my Dakar house. Her pictures were of her wearing different outfits. One of those outfits stuck in my head because it was so hideous- a jean ensemble with the American flag painted everywhere and a bit of bizarre leatheresque material. It seems that most women have these albums and are very willing to share them with you whether you ask to see them or not.
A disturbing thing about these pictures was that I got a window into what women do for a wedding. I was shocked to see that my host mother lightened her very dark brown skin to a caramel color. The lighter shade did not support her features and she looked washed out. My host aunt did the same thing. I cannot comprehend changing your skin color or lightening it and I don’t think I ever will.
Moreover, we are told as visitors to the country that Senegalese people do not like getting their picture taken or they will demand money if you take their picture. I have encountered the exact opposite situations. As soon as I pull out my camera people beg me to take their picture and then show it to them. I have taken (and then deleted) pictures of random people in the street or friends of my host family. When I took pictures of my host family last night they had to be taken in the nice new bedroom and my subject would pose on the bed in some ridiculous pose or another. The most religious of the family, a niece who lives with us, had me taken her picture only if her head was covered. Yet, she still sprawled out on the bed as if she was posing for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

bonnes

I have been taking a sustainable development class at an non-government organization called CRESP. At CRESP we had two weeks of lectures and then we split up into groups to work on projects. My group consisted of four people another American and two Senegalese students. Our group interviewed twelve maids who work in Yoff and are enrolled in a French literacy program at CRESP. We attempted to find out why they came to Dakar to work, if they’ve been to school, if they ever had housing or money troubles, if they had advice for girls in their position, etc. We transcribed the information we received into a learn-how-to-read book for them to use in their class. We tried to incorporate as much as they told us into their book. The book was finished last week and we will do a presentation on it this week. It was a very wholesome and exciting project.

laye laye layen

In Senegal Muslims can join one of the four brotherhoods and almost everyone is a member of a brotherhood. Each brotherhood has a particular idea about Islam. They have a Marabout who is seen as a leader. I will not delve into too much detail about the brotherhoods yet. What I will say is that the most visible on in Dakar is the Mourids brotherhood. Their holy land is Touba, Senegal. All around town buildings, buses, stores, etc bear the name Touba or Mourid pledging their alliance to their brotherhood. The smallest brotherhood is the Layen (pronounced like lion). Yoff is made up almost exclusively of Layens. My host family in here is Layen.
The Layens believe that Muhammed had his second coming about 100 years ago. He also had a son who was the reincarnate of Jesus (a interesting mix of Christianity and Islam). There are pictures of these men painted everywhere. It is easy to decipher who is the Jesus reincarnate because he is always painted with a cross on his head. At first I thought the man was very sweaty because he is painted as if there is a glare across the bridge of his nose and brow. I found out that the glare is actually a cross. now I am able to pick him out of the crowd the easiest. The Layens believe the end of the world is coming any day now. Overall, Layens enforce stricter codes when it comes to dressing and religious practices.
The founder of the Layen brotherhood wanted to eliminate all caste distinctions. One used to be able to tell what caste people were in based on their last name. Certain last names note a certain job or role that the family can have. It’s a very coded system. There is still a little of the caste system leftover, meaning, if someone wants to get married their family does research on the suitor to determine whether he or she come from a compatible caste. In any case, the founder of the Layen brotherhood had everyone take the last name Laye so that everyone could be treated equally. It sort of worked because Laye is incorporated into everyone’s name but the “coded” last names are still present. For example, my name is technically Soufi Laye Samb. When two Layens meet each other on the street there is a very particular way for them to greet each other repeating the word Laye. The Layens also have a particular way of praying that incorporates song into their daily prayers. It is beautiful and very unique. That is the history of Islam in Senegal lesson of the day.

purple brows

I’ve noticed a trend in women’s fashion here pertaining to eyebrows. It is all the rage to tweeze or shave off most of your eyebrows leaving little tiny short lines near the middle of where eyebrows should be. When you leave the house you draw thicker purple lines where eyebrows should be. Some people pencil in the surprised look, others do long and elegant, but most are just prominent purple lines. On the bus downtown I saw the most comical set of eyebrows. The woman had not bothered to get rid of her old ones but instead drew heavy purple lines above and through her original eyebrows. Her old eyebrows were very visible. I do not think I will adopt this trend into my lifestyle as purple wouldn’t really work well with my complexion.

man hater

A translated conversation of what really took place today:

Babacar: You are too feminist. It’s obvious.
Stephanie: I guess I am but there is nothing wrong with that.
Babacar: I don’t know what a man did to you to make you the way you are but it must have been grave.
Stephanie: Nobody did anything to me. This is just the way I am.
Babacar: You are not normal.
Stephanie: Thank you.

it's raining men

While this on the surface may seem like a vain post it is meant to represent a larger issue. I asked Mari who was in Senegal last semester what she liked the most and liked the least about Senegal. Her response was that she loved being a part of a Senegalese family. They completely include you in their family and you become their daughter. I have found this to be absolutely true. What she liked the least is something I also encounter all the time, Mari said that she disliked the men. Yes, Mari is a Mount Holyoke student and while that may merit a little skepticism in her comments, I can attest that it is very difficult to be a female in Senegal and even harder if you’re white.

One of my professors once told us that he thinks Senegalese men are the most macho in the world. I can see his point, it is as if men think they are entitled to interrupting whatever a woman is doing to convince her to marry him, buy his goods, call him, give him money, etc. And when that woman says no, he doesn’t stop but follows her, continues to talk, or hands her his number. On the surface this may seem like a minor problem in my life here but when I encounter stares everywhere I go, get harassed the moment I step outside of the house, or are followed when I walk, the frustration builds up. I have yet to explode; instead, I am trying the joking method. This method is simple, when a man approaches me and asks me questions I answer them very directly and then when he goes in for the kill, “ are you married?” I say I have 10 husbands in the US. This usually stops the conversation and he gets the point and walks away. Sometimes my joking backfires like when a man downtown tried to sell me a necklace. I told him I didn’t have any money but I would trade him the necklace for the five oranges I was carrying. He was not pleased with that snide remark at all and continued to go on and on about the beauty of the necklace. This continued even while I walked away, he followed me until I went into a bakery. What’s difficult is that I don’t have the Wolof language skills to fight off most of these men nor is it acceptable for me to curse them out. The situation is delicate. It’s also hard because I want to trust people and feel like people are being nice just to be nice instead of trying to escape from their miserable conditions. I think both sides are understandable. I want to be left alone and they want to escape poverty and underdevelopment. White women are valued as a source of escape. I am seen as a way out, it doesn’t matter where I am from, what I look like, or if I am kind. All that matters is my skin color and the fact that I have a passport. There are also many instances of colonial backlash, which for hundreds of years disvalued Africans, and jammed into their heads that white equals superior and beautiful. From talking to many Senegalese students in my class, these thoughts still linger in the psyche of many Africans. It’s one of the many horrible consequences of colonialism.

To give another example of what recently happened and made me feel powerless and violated was the following. I was visiting a friend in downtown Dakar. We were sitting around the house and in typical Senegalses fashion a constant stream of people came in and out the houses to hang out or just say hello (it’s really nice). In Senegalese culture when you enter a room you must greet and shake everyone’s hand. This man entered the room and greeted everyone. When he got to me he gave me a “hand tickle”. While this sounds benign, it is actually quite disgusting and has many sexual connotations. A hand tickle is a light scratch on the inside of the palm. It is used to indicate that you have a strong interest in the person and you want to be alone with them. It is usually just done between couples and is looked at as very forward if done with someone you don’t know. To me it was as if he was trying to intimidate me. I felt quite vulnerable and violated. I told my friend who promptly asked the man to leave.

To put a humorous spin on this uncomfortable situation I have decided to keep all the numbers I am given from the random men in the street. I started this initiative a week ago and so far I have four numbers in my collection.

boroom taxi

It’s time to talk about the taxis in and around Dakar because they are one of a kind. They are yellow and black automobiles that are usually missing a majority of the interior and sometimes the exterior. In Senegal you tell the taxi driver where you’re going before you enter the car. Then you and the driver proceed to bargain a price for the ride. When they see me approaching the price usually gets doubled. I always have a hard time figuring out how much I should pay so I ask a Senegalese person. It’s usually very hard to get comparable prices but I am beginning to get the hang of it. I am not quite sure how taxi drivers become licensed or if there is such a thing. It seems like there is a taxi for every five people. The drivers drive all around the town, honking their horns, and spraying sand all over the place. There have only been a few times when I did not have to give the taxi driver directions or have the driver stop to ask a person on the street directions. I wonder if they have to take a test to find out whether they know where major places in Dakar are located. I have to say that a reason why I have major problems finding my location is the fact that I can’t fully communicate in Wolof and only about 10% of taxi drivers understand French. All that to say the taxi experience is a unique one.

It is impossible to describe what Dakar taxis look like. Most of them are in a state of utter disrepair but are still tooling around town. I have been in taxis that don’t have door handles, back windshields, or apparatuses for keeping the door shut tightly. In the inside it is common to get into a taxi that is missing locks, door handles, window cranks, the inside of a door, or has huge cracks in the windshield. I love when I get a taxi that has velour interior and the windows don’t open. This morning I took a taxi that had blue velour seats, no window crank, and no place in the steering column for the ignition. The taxi driver started the car by putting two wires together. This is a pretty common practice. The fun does not stop there; taxis, en route to places pull into gas stations and fill their tanks with passengers sitting in the car. This has happened to me three times now. Taxi drivers also feel that is it perfectly fine to cut through gas stations to avoid traffic or drive on the sandy shoulder beeping and shaking their fists at the law-abiding citizens. My second week here I was in a taxi that rear-ended a car rapid. The people in the car rapid spit on the taxi and shook their fists at the driver. I just sat petrified in my red velvet seat hoping that he would just drive away, which is precisely what he did. He later ran over my notebook when he dropped me off. Basically taxis here are out of control.

How to know you're at a soccer game in Senegal

For the past two nights in a row I’ve gone to the big stadium in Dakar to watch soccer games. I have complied a list of events that indicate that you are at a typical soccer game in Dakar:

1. The lights go out mid-match.

2. Women are selling plastic baggies filled with water or ice cream. To consume the contents of the bag you have to bite the end off to the bag and suck on the plastic.

3. Teams do not necessarily have water bottles, those without use above mentioned bags and litter than on the field. I am pretty sure a player slipped on a plastic bag during the game.

4. A fight breaks out in the stadium because of a spiritual fetish. The goal-keeper of one team had a gris-gris or amulet to protect the goal and insure that noone scored. When the lights went out people in the stadium rush the field and try to steal the gris-gris. A big fight erupts on the field and the gendarmes, who are present to keep the peace, run to break it up. They unabashedly beat people with their batons and escort whomever they can catch off the field.

5. A player gets hurt on the field and medics wait to see the seriousness of it then out they run with a backboard to take the player off the field. After the player is off the field he, without fail, rolls off the backboard and sits up.

6. There is a male to female ratio of 50:1.

7. There are fans playing the drums throughout the entire match keeping the mood up and rowdy.

8. Brothers who live in the same house are on different teams even though the teams are split up by where you live. It just doesn’t make sense.

9. When you go with your host brother he introduces you as his wife and says your name is Ruby.

did you know white women glow in the dark?

Funny things that have happened here:

Amelia coined a term for a group of four or more women wearing traditional boubous who congregate. She calls them the boubou brigade. We saw such a brigade on our walk to the beach where about 25 women piled into a car rapid and all you saw was a sea of colorful head wraps, tree branch toothbrushes, and flailing arms.

Oumar, a Senegalese student in our sustainable development class, said he wants to marry a white woman so that he can still see her if the electricity goes out.

Emily and Julie described our experience in Senegal by parodying a cliché, “Life is usually take it or leave it. Here it is take it! Take it! Take it!”

My family can tell if I am approaching the house because the little kids who play outside scream “toubab toubab” (white person or European) when I walk by them. This has happened everyday without fail. You would think the novelty would wear off by now but it hasn't.

There are 2 goats living in my kitchen and every time I use the sink above their living area they “bah” uncontrollably.

My computer literally has bugs. There are ant-like creatures living under the keyboard that crawl around as I type.

No more rice!

In true American fashion I am going to dedicate a post to food. Food is the main topic of conversation we have while abroad because the differences in food are so pronounced. I just had the best meal since I’ve been in Senegal and it was a salad. As the resident lettuce hater I gobbled down the lettuce faster than ever before. The salad was Senegalese style- lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and cooked potato with a oil, vinegar and a pepper dressing. It was amazingly good. So good that I will probably get sick and spend the rest of the week in the bathroom.

This meal represents the overwhelming problem in Senegal of malnutrition. I was so ecstatic to eat lettuce, even though I am a lettuce hater, because I have yet to eat raw vegetables since my arrival. Normal Senegalese meals lack nutrients and vitamins, which is probably a large factor in the high-infant mortality rate as well as susceptibility toward illness. For breakfast people eat baguettes with chocolate or butter, if you live in my house you eat it with chocolate-butter. Coffee or Senegalese tea is a common breakfast beverage and so is powdered milk. You are hard-pressed to find liquid milk. For lunch people eat either meat swimming in oil with rice or French fries. For the past few weeks I have been eating rice and fish every night for dinner. In that dish, cebbujen, there are a few standard vegetables that have been cooked to death. My host family in Dakar calls me “Madame Chou” because I always go for the vegetables especially the cabbage, which is chou in French. While families eat a lot of fish because Dakar is on the water, they do not eat enough poultry or beef because it’s too expensive. Vegetables are available when in season but Senegalese dishes do not use many of them and they are always cooked so that they are mushy enough to ball up in your hand. Many traditional families eat around a bowl using their hands to eat, the oldest women breaks up the vegetables and meat to distribute them to the rest of the people eating. It’s an unsanitary but egalitarian gesture. Fruits are everywhere but are not seen as a standard foodstuff kept around the house because it is seen as a snack you buy in between meals. All that to say I have been making a concerted effort to eat well despite the overwhelming barriers, namely ten tons of rice.

Sad about the beach

Our group of students, 9 Americans and 10 Senegalese, went to the Yoff beach to look at the sanitation problems. The beaches could be the most beautiful in Dakar if it wasn’t for the fact that the beach is used as a garbage dumping ground. The sand is covered in things as egg shells, aluminum containers, clothing, large plastic rice sacks, tires, little plastic baggies, pieces of blue plastic, animal waste, and dead fish. The sand is literally covered in this garbage and some of the garbage is floating around in the water. Sections of the beach are used as the launching dock for fisherman who dump their garbage everywhere and keep goats on the beach. They defecate everywhere as do the wild dogs and cats who roam the sand in search for food. Another problem is that households not only dump their trash on the beach but they also dump the water they use for washing clothing and dishes. This “gray water” is a contaminator and is bad for the ocean and the sand.

The reason why people use the beach as a landfill is complicated. One reason is that Yoff is completely overcrowded. It is set up like a village but is really the size of a small city. People come here and work for a small time in Dakar and live in Yoff then leave. They, of course, don’t care about what happens to Yoff and don’t help to clean it up. The streets are narrow making it difficult for garbage trucks to pass. The garbage trucks have to go very far to drop the garbage off and there is limited infrastructure so they come wherever and as infrequently as they can. Another reason why people dirty up the beach is because they know that some organization will come and clean it up if it gets too out of control. Instead of educating people why throwing garbage on the beach is terrible, these organizations rally people and host weekends dedicated to beach clean-up. It is a Band-Aid to a larger graver problem.

Ramadan Inn

During this month a group of people camp out near my house in Yoff in an open field. A large tent has been erected with chairs for about 200 people nestled close together. There are two huge screens hung from two large buildings and a projector to cast images of praying people and people giving speeches. They have a sound system loud enough for people a mile away to hear the goings on. During the day about 100 women sit around and talk. They wear white and are most veiled. These women come to Yoff only for the month of Ramadan. I don’t know where they sleep but I do know where they use the facilities. Every night after people break the fast more women and some men stream to this tent. One night I would estimate about 400 people came spilling out onto the nearby sandy field. They pray together and listen to speeches in Arabic and French.
Since a bunch of the women stay in Yoff for Ramadan they need a place to use the bathroom, take showers, get water, and change clothes. That is where my house plays a part. About 30 women a night come into the house, one after the other greeting us then proceed to use the facilities. Sometimes they stick around and watch television or pray in the living room. It is very kind of my family to allow all these women to use our house as a hostel. The women seem to appreciate it immensely. I am pretty sure my host mother gives them food if there is some left over. I have coined our house the Ramadan Inn.

The beginning/ Yoff

I have been meaning to create a blog about Senegal since I arrived but I never had the time to do so. This should serve as a medium to gain information about life in Dakar.

I am currently in Yoff; a fishing village about 20 minutes North of Dakar. People have said it is a "magical place" but I have yet to feel any magic. There is a lot of mysticism surrounding the creation of the village. The Yoffoise believe that genies look after them and the keep them in good health. If you do not pay homage to the genie as often as necessary bad things will happen. This mysticism sharply conflicts with the prevalence of Islam, which is omnipresent. There are faces of Islamic leaders painted everywhere. I find the village to be far more traditional than Dakar. Women rarely leave the house and when they do they cover their heads. Many young men sit outside drinking tea and talking all day long. There is a lot of unemployment.

My Yoff host family is very nice. They gave me a Wolof name, Sufi Samba. No one calls me Stephanie is the house, I do not think many of the family know my real name. There are 11 people living in the house. There are three little girls who are sweet; one of the girls is 10 years old wears a hearing aid. I wonder how she is treated outside of the house. I also wonder if she goes to school because she did not really know the colors in French. She is a very kind and gentle child. My family speaks much less French than my Dakar family. My host mother in Yoff is an Arabic teacher and her niece who lives with us takes her classes in Arabic.

I am trying to learn Wolof but I am having trouble learning it outside of the classroom. My host family asks me simple questions and I learn that way. I think I progressed much faster when I was taking Wolof at the Baobab Center.

In this Yoff house, there are 2 goats living in my kitchen. I am pretty sure that they will be sacrificed for the end of Ramadan. I do not know if I will be able to handle that. They do smell very badly and their smell permeates the house from time to time.