In Senegal if you do something nice for someone or give him or her a gift they usually bless you in Wolof. It always baffles me when such poor people like my maid Khady, bless me and wish me “xaalis bu bare,” or “lots of money”. She shold be blessing herself and let me fend for myself. Anyway, in addition to money most often “xale bu bare” or “many children” are also part of the blessing. It’s at that point almost every time I say my dutiful “amen” and run away hoping I will not be like Senegalese women with five or more children.
On a completely unrelated note if you tell someone you like what they are wearing they will either offer to give it to you or they will offer to name it after you. I have been offered many items from a necklace to a skirt but have always declined. I have several items named after me, a tee shirt, Khady’s pagne, a blanket on the extra bed, and most recently my host dad’s grand boubou.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
This is Dakar
This is my typical experience on my walk to University.
I leave my house with the wind blowing it is Harmattan season. The Harmattan is a strong wind that blows across the Sahara going right through Dakar. Sand nicks my ankles and if exposed calves. I begin my 45 minute walk through sand and on uneven pavement. On the VDN, the street or highway that I live on I try to avoid deep sand, garbage, stray dogs, and cars who think that the walking space is really a road. As I walk car rapide apprentis yell there destinations, “Fann Fann” or “ Dakar Dakar.” They bang on the side of the tin automobile altering the driver that he should not stop or that he should stop to let someone off. I walk past the Mobil station where early morning traffic loves to cut through and make schoolchildren jump out of the way. There is usually a car rapid filled with passengers filling up its tank. Right after the station are the bushes where I got into a fight with a car rapid apprenti. Those same bushes are where men urinate and squat to do their abolutions. Sidewalk appears made out of stone slabs and is uneven and missing pieces. I pass the group of large women sitting on the corner of the huge intersection. They have many buckets and bowls wrapped in fabric. While sitting they resemble a sea of brightly colored garden with different prints and materials mixing.
I cross the street and sometimes the man with a gray hollow pipe for a leg is in the area. He always wears a red knit hat and a green jacket. When he’s not walking around with his wooden cane he sprawls out on the sidewalk giving the people going by a look into his pipe. The canal near where he sits is filled with garbage- cardboard boxes, plastic bottles, scraps of fabric, wrappers, and car parts. Everything is sodden with water and sewage. A bit further down there is a man who has a deformity that impairs him from standing upright. He walks by using his hands that are padded with flip-flops. He uses his legs to propel forward with his butt sticking up. He “walks” around for awhile then sits down sticking his hand out to the passing cars and pedestrians. The bar in front of where he frequents, shelters the North African families who sit on the sidewalk and send their small children out to beg. These kids have a totally different method of asking for money which is to hang onto the pedestrian making them stop or slow down or running up to someone and cling to them for a block or two. I could write a dissertation on begging techniques in Dakar. Before I cross the street to either walk near the other Mobil station that houses On The Run or the Post Office I look at the huge baobab tree on the corner that stands tall and majestic among the chaos of Dakar.
Just as a reminder to understand what it feels like to walk down the street, there are constantly people staring and usually there will be a person or two who will scream “toubab.” From this point in my walk until the University the sidewalk is packed with people. Many people have physical deformities or handicaps that impair their ability to walk. There are talibes everywhere sticking their washed-out tomato sauce can hoping for coins or cookies. If I do not have anything edible to give the talibes I say “ba baneen” which means, “next time.” Encroaching onto the sidewalk are vendors selling: electronics, school supplies, or decorations for cars or car rapids like window decorations of a hand making the peace sign or a picture of Madonna. Before Michael bought me new ipod headphones I would buy cheap ones for 20 cents every few weeks at these tables. There are also people who have set up a table with benches around it where they sell meals for very cheap. Women selling peanuts: raw, grilled, sweet, and brittle have tables every few feet sometimes they also sell little forest berries found in Senegal. I prefer the grilled or sugar ones and buy them as quick snacks.
The street the University is on is called Avenue Cheikh Anta Diop. It is the most direct road that goes downtown. Many buses and car rapids have their routes on the road and share the road with bikes, motorcycles, cars, and taxies. The road, which probably is traveled on by at least thousands of people daily only has three lanes in total. One goes north, one goes south, and one is for passing. It is incredibly crowded especially around the University. Some motorcyclists decide to drive on the sidewalk to avoid the traffic jams on the road. I usually see an accident or altercation on my way to or from school.
The notable people I pass on my way from the Post Office to UCAD’s gates are more interesting than the other side of the road, the Mobil Station side. The first person whom I usually see begging for money is one of the most desperate cases. He does not have legs and has limited use of his spine so he can barely sit up straight. He lays face down, arms outstretched, wearing a prayer cap and earphones. He just lies there all morning staring at people’s shoes. I think he makes a lot of money because so many people feel sorry for him, as they should since he would never be able to work to make money in the condition he is in. The next highlight is the crazy woman that recently moved onto the block. She sprawls out on a straw mat on the sidewalk. Most of the time she sleeps covering herself in a red tattered blanket. In front of her she places a deteriorating woven bag that people throw coins onto. I am planning to give her the warm fleece blanket I “borrowed” from Royal Air Maroc as well as some soap. Today I saw her awake sitting on her mat holding a braided wig combing out the knots with her fingers. She was laughing to herself displaying her beautiful white teeth and bright eyes. After her there is just table after table selling a variety of goods.
After I pass the University gates things begin to peak up. The buildings are disgusting and in need of a paint job but the members of the community seem content and fed. Talibes and women with young children do sit on the sidewalk and ask for money but it far less intense than it is outside of the gates.
That is Dakar.
I leave my house with the wind blowing it is Harmattan season. The Harmattan is a strong wind that blows across the Sahara going right through Dakar. Sand nicks my ankles and if exposed calves. I begin my 45 minute walk through sand and on uneven pavement. On the VDN, the street or highway that I live on I try to avoid deep sand, garbage, stray dogs, and cars who think that the walking space is really a road. As I walk car rapide apprentis yell there destinations, “Fann Fann” or “ Dakar Dakar.” They bang on the side of the tin automobile altering the driver that he should not stop or that he should stop to let someone off. I walk past the Mobil station where early morning traffic loves to cut through and make schoolchildren jump out of the way. There is usually a car rapid filled with passengers filling up its tank. Right after the station are the bushes where I got into a fight with a car rapid apprenti. Those same bushes are where men urinate and squat to do their abolutions. Sidewalk appears made out of stone slabs and is uneven and missing pieces. I pass the group of large women sitting on the corner of the huge intersection. They have many buckets and bowls wrapped in fabric. While sitting they resemble a sea of brightly colored garden with different prints and materials mixing.
I cross the street and sometimes the man with a gray hollow pipe for a leg is in the area. He always wears a red knit hat and a green jacket. When he’s not walking around with his wooden cane he sprawls out on the sidewalk giving the people going by a look into his pipe. The canal near where he sits is filled with garbage- cardboard boxes, plastic bottles, scraps of fabric, wrappers, and car parts. Everything is sodden with water and sewage. A bit further down there is a man who has a deformity that impairs him from standing upright. He walks by using his hands that are padded with flip-flops. He uses his legs to propel forward with his butt sticking up. He “walks” around for awhile then sits down sticking his hand out to the passing cars and pedestrians. The bar in front of where he frequents, shelters the North African families who sit on the sidewalk and send their small children out to beg. These kids have a totally different method of asking for money which is to hang onto the pedestrian making them stop or slow down or running up to someone and cling to them for a block or two. I could write a dissertation on begging techniques in Dakar. Before I cross the street to either walk near the other Mobil station that houses On The Run or the Post Office I look at the huge baobab tree on the corner that stands tall and majestic among the chaos of Dakar.
Just as a reminder to understand what it feels like to walk down the street, there are constantly people staring and usually there will be a person or two who will scream “toubab.” From this point in my walk until the University the sidewalk is packed with people. Many people have physical deformities or handicaps that impair their ability to walk. There are talibes everywhere sticking their washed-out tomato sauce can hoping for coins or cookies. If I do not have anything edible to give the talibes I say “ba baneen” which means, “next time.” Encroaching onto the sidewalk are vendors selling: electronics, school supplies, or decorations for cars or car rapids like window decorations of a hand making the peace sign or a picture of Madonna. Before Michael bought me new ipod headphones I would buy cheap ones for 20 cents every few weeks at these tables. There are also people who have set up a table with benches around it where they sell meals for very cheap. Women selling peanuts: raw, grilled, sweet, and brittle have tables every few feet sometimes they also sell little forest berries found in Senegal. I prefer the grilled or sugar ones and buy them as quick snacks.
The street the University is on is called Avenue Cheikh Anta Diop. It is the most direct road that goes downtown. Many buses and car rapids have their routes on the road and share the road with bikes, motorcycles, cars, and taxies. The road, which probably is traveled on by at least thousands of people daily only has three lanes in total. One goes north, one goes south, and one is for passing. It is incredibly crowded especially around the University. Some motorcyclists decide to drive on the sidewalk to avoid the traffic jams on the road. I usually see an accident or altercation on my way to or from school.
The notable people I pass on my way from the Post Office to UCAD’s gates are more interesting than the other side of the road, the Mobil Station side. The first person whom I usually see begging for money is one of the most desperate cases. He does not have legs and has limited use of his spine so he can barely sit up straight. He lays face down, arms outstretched, wearing a prayer cap and earphones. He just lies there all morning staring at people’s shoes. I think he makes a lot of money because so many people feel sorry for him, as they should since he would never be able to work to make money in the condition he is in. The next highlight is the crazy woman that recently moved onto the block. She sprawls out on a straw mat on the sidewalk. Most of the time she sleeps covering herself in a red tattered blanket. In front of her she places a deteriorating woven bag that people throw coins onto. I am planning to give her the warm fleece blanket I “borrowed” from Royal Air Maroc as well as some soap. Today I saw her awake sitting on her mat holding a braided wig combing out the knots with her fingers. She was laughing to herself displaying her beautiful white teeth and bright eyes. After her there is just table after table selling a variety of goods.
After I pass the University gates things begin to peak up. The buildings are disgusting and in need of a paint job but the members of the community seem content and fed. Talibes and women with young children do sit on the sidewalk and ask for money but it far less intense than it is outside of the gates.
That is Dakar.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
sure are a lot of rocks in morocco
A few weeks ago I met my dad and Linda in Morocco. We traveled all over the North of the country seeing amazing sights. We went to many places in our short week including Rabat, Meknes, Fez, Marrakech, Essaouria, and Casablanca. We were chauffeured around by a hot-headed Moroccan man named Abdellah. He gave us his opinions on the wonders of having a king to Algerians being lazy. He was a very kind guy who wanted us to love Morocco as much as he does. Speaking for myself, I think he succeeded, I now see Morocco in a different light not solely as an exotic travel destination. It like any place has it’s positives and negatives as well as it’s scandals and little secrets.
I looked at Morocco from a Senegalese perspective while my dad and Linda must have seen it from an American one. To me Morocco was nicely developed with clean and smooth roads, infrastructure, organization, and a vibrant culture. I think my dad and Linda saw much less development and organization. In Senegal the roads are overcrowded, filled with garbage and holes, and are not well planned. Horse drawn carts, taxis, buses, motorcycles, scooters, wheelchairs, bikes, and cars share the biggest roads in Dakar, which are only two lanes. People either stay at home with their families or sit under trees talking the day away. In the cities we visited people seemed to be out and about strolling along. Like in Senegal, the majority of people walking around are young men. Women are expected to stay at home and keep house. Women’s place as inferior beings, while not formally stated, is felt. Many more women veil and wear full-length garments than in Senegal. It was surprising to me since Morocco, while an Arab Muslim country, it is the most lenient by far.
Some highlights from the trip were visiting Otman’s family in Fez. His family was incredibly hospitable and kind. They made us a delicious lunch, made tea, chatted through our guide who acted as the interpreter. His mother gave me gifts including a carpet she made and a djeballah, which my dad has decided, looks like Obi1Konobi’s robe in Star Wars. His family made us feel at home and welcomed. It was a wonderful experience.
Another exciting part of the trip was the Sahara Desert experience. We stayed in a little auberge in the Sahara. We slept in Berber tents with heavy (and smelly) woolen blankets to keep out the cold and sand. We also took a memorable camel ride to the dunes and climbed up a small one to watch the sunset. Riding a camel is much like riding a horse except it moves at a far slower pace and getting off is very jerky.
Essaouria was an all-around cool city. After the sunset shop owners broke out their guitars and had a jam session while people walked unhurriedly around the medina. The seascape looks much like Dakar. I think it was the rocks on the beach and small islands off the coast. Linda and I did the hammam at our hotel. A hammam is usually a public bath where you chose hot or cold water then proceed to dump buckets of water all over your almost naked body. Since it was in the hotel Linda and I were the only ones in the hammam and that was fine with modest me. A woman at the hotel scrubbed us down with black soap and an exfoliating mitt that aptly took off layers of my skin. I was horrified to see how disgustingly dirty I was thanks to the pollution and grime of Dakar. I have not felt that clean in a long time. These Dakar cold-water showers are not doing their job.
In Fez we visited a tile and pottery cooperative. We got to see the many steps of making tile mosaics and painted pottery. I think, personally love both objects made from tiles and ceramics so I was in heaven. To make the elaborate shapes used in mosaics people chip away with a heavy hammer at square tiles until they make the desired shape. Pottery is painstakingly painted with horsehair and bamboo brushes in complicated designs. How some painted pottery comes out almost identical is mind blowing. Everything was created by hand without using molds or machines. In the United States we rarely see objects made by hand without the use of heavy machinery. There slight difference between objects is accepted and people’s handicraft skills are valued. I bought a few items to give as gifts and in retrospect I should have purchased more. A la prochaine fois as we say in French. Until next time..
As a complete and utter sidenote, Morocco is covered in rocks. They look like as if they were sprinkled on the ground by chance. Also, I have never seen as many sattilite dishes as I did in Morocco. Even little shacks that probably lacked running water had a dish.
I looked at Morocco from a Senegalese perspective while my dad and Linda must have seen it from an American one. To me Morocco was nicely developed with clean and smooth roads, infrastructure, organization, and a vibrant culture. I think my dad and Linda saw much less development and organization. In Senegal the roads are overcrowded, filled with garbage and holes, and are not well planned. Horse drawn carts, taxis, buses, motorcycles, scooters, wheelchairs, bikes, and cars share the biggest roads in Dakar, which are only two lanes. People either stay at home with their families or sit under trees talking the day away. In the cities we visited people seemed to be out and about strolling along. Like in Senegal, the majority of people walking around are young men. Women are expected to stay at home and keep house. Women’s place as inferior beings, while not formally stated, is felt. Many more women veil and wear full-length garments than in Senegal. It was surprising to me since Morocco, while an Arab Muslim country, it is the most lenient by far.
Some highlights from the trip were visiting Otman’s family in Fez. His family was incredibly hospitable and kind. They made us a delicious lunch, made tea, chatted through our guide who acted as the interpreter. His mother gave me gifts including a carpet she made and a djeballah, which my dad has decided, looks like Obi1Konobi’s robe in Star Wars. His family made us feel at home and welcomed. It was a wonderful experience.
Another exciting part of the trip was the Sahara Desert experience. We stayed in a little auberge in the Sahara. We slept in Berber tents with heavy (and smelly) woolen blankets to keep out the cold and sand. We also took a memorable camel ride to the dunes and climbed up a small one to watch the sunset. Riding a camel is much like riding a horse except it moves at a far slower pace and getting off is very jerky.
Essaouria was an all-around cool city. After the sunset shop owners broke out their guitars and had a jam session while people walked unhurriedly around the medina. The seascape looks much like Dakar. I think it was the rocks on the beach and small islands off the coast. Linda and I did the hammam at our hotel. A hammam is usually a public bath where you chose hot or cold water then proceed to dump buckets of water all over your almost naked body. Since it was in the hotel Linda and I were the only ones in the hammam and that was fine with modest me. A woman at the hotel scrubbed us down with black soap and an exfoliating mitt that aptly took off layers of my skin. I was horrified to see how disgustingly dirty I was thanks to the pollution and grime of Dakar. I have not felt that clean in a long time. These Dakar cold-water showers are not doing their job.
In Fez we visited a tile and pottery cooperative. We got to see the many steps of making tile mosaics and painted pottery. I think, personally love both objects made from tiles and ceramics so I was in heaven. To make the elaborate shapes used in mosaics people chip away with a heavy hammer at square tiles until they make the desired shape. Pottery is painstakingly painted with horsehair and bamboo brushes in complicated designs. How some painted pottery comes out almost identical is mind blowing. Everything was created by hand without using molds or machines. In the United States we rarely see objects made by hand without the use of heavy machinery. There slight difference between objects is accepted and people’s handicraft skills are valued. I bought a few items to give as gifts and in retrospect I should have purchased more. A la prochaine fois as we say in French. Until next time..
As a complete and utter sidenote, Morocco is covered in rocks. They look like as if they were sprinkled on the ground by chance. Also, I have never seen as many sattilite dishes as I did in Morocco. Even little shacks that probably lacked running water had a dish.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
What's your name?
Senegalese people seem to have a knack for remembering names. I have been introduced to people once or twice and in passing they will call out to me by name. I usually have no idea who they are or how I know them. It’s pitiful. In Senegal, I seem to have a mental block on Senegalese names. No matter how many times I am told names I seem to forget them quickly. Perhaps it can be attributed to my unfamiliarity with the pronunciation. It would be a faux pas to call Boubacar, Babacar or Halib, Habib. My name retention problem is especially embarrassing with the people in my class with whom I chat with on a daily basis. In order to remember people in my head Alisa and I, (we have all of our classes together), have begun to refer to people by nicknames. I can remember the nicknames but never their names. So far we have Versace whom we call Versach because the first time we bonded with him he was wearing a brown bootleg Versace tee shirt (and a faux Dolce and Gabana belt). This guy has invited us to tea and a sociological discussion yet we have no idea what his name is. Then there is “rasta hat man” who is a bit of a rubble rouser and once argued with students who interrupted our class to announce a strike. There is the woman who looks like a “Fatou Gaye” offspring. Fatou Gaye was Mari’s host mom and most recently Julie’s host mother in Yoff. All of her children have very similar looking faces. We have succeeded in remembering one student’s name because he is a god-sent. His name is Vieux, which in French means “old” (it’s helpful to note quirks). He also gave Alisa his phone number which helps. There is a student in about four of my six classes who knows my name, where I live, the classes I take and probably my social security number and I for the life of me cannot pronounce his name. I tried to play the trick of having someone in our group ask him his name while being introduced to him but nobody could not understand what he said.
The reason that this is such a big deal is that names in Senegal are very important. Firstly, children are usually named after a close relative or even a co-spouse. Naming someone after another person demonstrates the respect you have for them. This means that there are about five people per extended family with the same name. In my host mom’s family there are about four Abys, which is the name of her mother.
Secondly, when you are introduced to someone in Wolof you, as part of the greeting, are supposed to repeat their name. Sometimes the repetition gets so intense that one person is saying the other’ name while the other is trying to talk to them. My host dad has a habit of repeating the persons name as they are talking. It makes my listening comprehension impossible.
Thirdly, culturally it is important that when you know someone’s name or in my case should know someone’s name that you throw it into conversation as often as possible. You can state someone’s name a several times in a simple greeting conversation. It is as if saying the word for “you“ is impolite.
I have found that Senegalese with “Western” names, usually denoting that they are Catholic are easier to remember. I had no problem remembering Patrick’s, the man who sells English study guides outside of my Medical Anthropology class, name or Francois who is in several of my classes. This confirms my hypothesis that my horrible memory for Senegalese names is attributed to my unfamiliarity with the sounds of the words.
The reason that this is such a big deal is that names in Senegal are very important. Firstly, children are usually named after a close relative or even a co-spouse. Naming someone after another person demonstrates the respect you have for them. This means that there are about five people per extended family with the same name. In my host mom’s family there are about four Abys, which is the name of her mother.
Secondly, when you are introduced to someone in Wolof you, as part of the greeting, are supposed to repeat their name. Sometimes the repetition gets so intense that one person is saying the other’ name while the other is trying to talk to them. My host dad has a habit of repeating the persons name as they are talking. It makes my listening comprehension impossible.
Thirdly, culturally it is important that when you know someone’s name or in my case should know someone’s name that you throw it into conversation as often as possible. You can state someone’s name a several times in a simple greeting conversation. It is as if saying the word for “you“ is impolite.
I have found that Senegalese with “Western” names, usually denoting that they are Catholic are easier to remember. I had no problem remembering Patrick’s, the man who sells English study guides outside of my Medical Anthropology class, name or Francois who is in several of my classes. This confirms my hypothesis that my horrible memory for Senegalese names is attributed to my unfamiliarity with the sounds of the words.
Fake Threads
As briefly mentioned in “What’s your name” inhabitants of Dakar have a penchant for counterfeit clothing. I would argue that bootleg goods are helping to kill the vibrant sense of fashion and people’s individuality in terms their dress. The popularity of “ready-to-wear” or “prêt-a-porter” clothing has taken a hold of Senegal. While many people still buy fabric and visit a local tailor, many people, especially young people, are beginning to turn to the easier and cheaper way to purchase clothing. With tailors you bring the fabric and any amenity you would like added to your piece, lace, piping, jewels, etc. The tailor, almost all of whom are men, takes your measurements and evaluates whether you have enough fabric for your design. Most of the time you provide the design of the desired clothing. It is a lot of fun and can be a nice creative outlet. If you are not the imaginative type the you can tell the tailor what you want (dress, pants, outfit) made from the fabric and he or she will design it for you or you can look at a book of photos the tailor has of his of her work. I personally take great pleasure in designing my own outfits or “borrowing” my friend’s ideas.
Anyway, prêt-a-porter is significantly cheaper both monetarily and in quality. It is also omnipresent in Dakar. Vendors selling fake Channel tank tops or faux Lacoste belts walk around the neighborhoods hawking their goods. The markets, even the market that sells fabric, has many counterfeit goods from fake Louis V wallets to Prada shoes (that say Gucci on the inside, I swear) to fake Diesel jeans. Counterfeit is ubiquitous. This not just a Senegalese thing, at the clubs Arab men sporting faux Polo shirts sip their Cokes and talk to their girlfriends who have the faux Longchamp bags. At university every other person is wearing at least one item of prêt-a-porter. Caitlin bought “real Gucci sunglasses” for a very small price. Gucci is written across the bridge and is on crooked. On one side the silver medallion that should say Gucci is missing. They are the most ridiculous sunglasses but emblematic of “prêt-a-porter” and the new wave of Senegalese fashion.
I don’t think many people believe their knock-off goods are real. Otman, who I think has amassed a huge quantity of bootleg clothing, says he picks it out because it because it is accessible or he likes the way it looks. I don’t think he has any idea the price or the reputation of the real goods. He wears it because it was a gift from someone or he likes the color. I have noticed that friends oftentimes buy their friends the knock-off clothing as presents. While we in the US would be offended to receive a fake bag or pair of jeans, here these gifts are welcomed.
Senegalese style clothing- boubous, batiks, taille-basses, etc do come in prêt-a-porter but usually in an enormous size made for big mamas or for little children. If they do come in a more fitted size, usually batik dresses, it is not acceptable to wear them out of the house since they are considered house dresses. “Traditional” wear is not supposed to be fitted so the size doesn’t matter. Men wear their clothing huge so that it hangs off of their bodies. It is all the rage to wear tight clothing so young women will rarely wear huge boubous. It is far more common to see her wearing a taille-basse, which consists of a top and long skirt that when made at the tailor is usually fitted. All of the prêt-a-porter taille-basses I have seen come with enormous tops and fitted skirts. Not cute. The hugeness of the clothing sometimes makes it inappropriate for young women to wear because the armpit holes expose their breasts. For older women it’s fine because they do what they want and you end up seeing their breasts on a daily basis through the armpit hole of their boubou (I kid you not). It is far more attractive and wise just to go to the tailor and get measured.
One of my favorite pastimes is checking out counterfeit shirts. I enjoy picking out all of the grammar and spelling errors. One of Otman’s favorite Diesel shirts has establishment spelled wrong. His friend’s mother just sent him a gift of bootleg jeans and a tee shirt. The Dolce and Gabana tee said, “The best place for avantre is here.” It doesn’t make sense that Italian brand would write on their clothing in English. It makes less sense that the clothing is counterfeited to begin with.
A shirt is a shirt, a belt just a belt so it shouldn’t matter that they are fake. I think it does since it says something about what is being dumped into Senegal. Senegalese society is not materialistic nor brand obsessed as we are in North American and Europe. People buy the prêt-a-porter because it’s cheap. Those Channel tank tops are sold everywhere in a variety of colors for about $3. The bootleg clothing gives off the appearance that Senegalese culture is turning into a consumer haven. It also demonstrates to the outside that Senegalese people do not care about quality or that they can be easily fooled. I think the connotations are bogus. Already tailors are feeling the effects. Some have closed up shop while others have to raise their prices in order to make money. It is another example of something being introduced from the outside that is messing up the culture and the country.
Anyway, prêt-a-porter is significantly cheaper both monetarily and in quality. It is also omnipresent in Dakar. Vendors selling fake Channel tank tops or faux Lacoste belts walk around the neighborhoods hawking their goods. The markets, even the market that sells fabric, has many counterfeit goods from fake Louis V wallets to Prada shoes (that say Gucci on the inside, I swear) to fake Diesel jeans. Counterfeit is ubiquitous. This not just a Senegalese thing, at the clubs Arab men sporting faux Polo shirts sip their Cokes and talk to their girlfriends who have the faux Longchamp bags. At university every other person is wearing at least one item of prêt-a-porter. Caitlin bought “real Gucci sunglasses” for a very small price. Gucci is written across the bridge and is on crooked. On one side the silver medallion that should say Gucci is missing. They are the most ridiculous sunglasses but emblematic of “prêt-a-porter” and the new wave of Senegalese fashion.
I don’t think many people believe their knock-off goods are real. Otman, who I think has amassed a huge quantity of bootleg clothing, says he picks it out because it because it is accessible or he likes the way it looks. I don’t think he has any idea the price or the reputation of the real goods. He wears it because it was a gift from someone or he likes the color. I have noticed that friends oftentimes buy their friends the knock-off clothing as presents. While we in the US would be offended to receive a fake bag or pair of jeans, here these gifts are welcomed.
Senegalese style clothing- boubous, batiks, taille-basses, etc do come in prêt-a-porter but usually in an enormous size made for big mamas or for little children. If they do come in a more fitted size, usually batik dresses, it is not acceptable to wear them out of the house since they are considered house dresses. “Traditional” wear is not supposed to be fitted so the size doesn’t matter. Men wear their clothing huge so that it hangs off of their bodies. It is all the rage to wear tight clothing so young women will rarely wear huge boubous. It is far more common to see her wearing a taille-basse, which consists of a top and long skirt that when made at the tailor is usually fitted. All of the prêt-a-porter taille-basses I have seen come with enormous tops and fitted skirts. Not cute. The hugeness of the clothing sometimes makes it inappropriate for young women to wear because the armpit holes expose their breasts. For older women it’s fine because they do what they want and you end up seeing their breasts on a daily basis through the armpit hole of their boubou (I kid you not). It is far more attractive and wise just to go to the tailor and get measured.
One of my favorite pastimes is checking out counterfeit shirts. I enjoy picking out all of the grammar and spelling errors. One of Otman’s favorite Diesel shirts has establishment spelled wrong. His friend’s mother just sent him a gift of bootleg jeans and a tee shirt. The Dolce and Gabana tee said, “The best place for avantre is here.” It doesn’t make sense that Italian brand would write on their clothing in English. It makes less sense that the clothing is counterfeited to begin with.
A shirt is a shirt, a belt just a belt so it shouldn’t matter that they are fake. I think it does since it says something about what is being dumped into Senegal. Senegalese society is not materialistic nor brand obsessed as we are in North American and Europe. People buy the prêt-a-porter because it’s cheap. Those Channel tank tops are sold everywhere in a variety of colors for about $3. The bootleg clothing gives off the appearance that Senegalese culture is turning into a consumer haven. It also demonstrates to the outside that Senegalese people do not care about quality or that they can be easily fooled. I think the connotations are bogus. Already tailors are feeling the effects. Some have closed up shop while others have to raise their prices in order to make money. It is another example of something being introduced from the outside that is messing up the culture and the country.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Dakar versus DC
If I could compare Dakar to any city in the United States I would say it is most comparable to Washington DC. The fact that they are both the capital city does play a role in my comparison as does use of space.
First and foremost in both cities the president lives in a big white house. In the US it’s the white house in Senegal it is called the Palais Presidentiel. In Dakar one of the few places you can find grass is in front of the Palais.
One of my favorite activities is watching the presidential motorcade leave the Palais. It is by far the most absurd thing. First there are a few police officers on motorcycles that lead the way, followed by huge Ford Expeditions with tinted windows and flashing blue lights, the is the presidents Mercedes with hearse-like curtains in the backseat, usually there is another Mercedes or two near his car, then there is always a not-as-nice car, followed by more Expeditions, and the bringing-up-the-back police officers on motorcycles. As he and his crew pass the gendarmerie who are called in to block traffic salute him. What makes the whole motorcade such a charade is that guns barely exist in Senegal so for anyone to do harm to the President they would have to knife him probably with a machete, which means entering his ‘Benz.
Since it is a capital city it, like DC, it is overrun with administrative buildings. Dakar is home to more ministers’ offices than you can imagine. There are also legislative buildings, as well as many government run institutions. The United Nations has a large presence in Dakar. Similarly to DC, Dakar is host to many embassies and ambassadors houses. They tend to stick out among the regular folks houses, as they are typically quite large and well manicured. Many of them are in a “suburb” called Fann near the university. Fann reminds me of the area near American University except that one part of the suburb borders the Atlantic Ocean.
The proximity to water is another similarities between the two cities. Dakar is as cosmopolitan as it is because of the presence of a port. DC has a nice port for people to park their yachts. In both cities because of the water you can find good seafood. I must say that DC is missing out on the fisherman culture. Typically Dakar fisherman fish at night from 8pm to 7am in pirogues (the boats that are also used to bring Senegalese to the Canary Islands), Watching the fishermen come back to shore in the morning is one of the most impressive sights (and smells) around. But to be fair, DC has a one-up on Dakar since it has the Smithsonians, Dakar is host to one official museum that my mother would refer to as “dinky” if she ever visited.
The people who live in Dakar have a similar pace as the people who live in DC. It is not the face pace always on the move pace of New York while it is not as laid back as other cities. You understand that people are the move but are willing to stop and talk if you engage them in conversation. Also, like in DC not many people call Dakar their home. Most people live on the outskirts of the city and commute in to work.
The traffic is comparably horrible in both places. You can easily be stuck on a crowded bus for an hour and a half when the trip should only take about ten minutes. Dakar has a serious pollution and over population problem so the commute is far more unpleasant. There have been times where I have noticed that I have arrived at my destination faster than a bus that traveled the same route. Urban planning for Dakar was minimal outside of the fact that the French administrators wanted to house all of the Africans in Dakar in an a township called Medina. Most roads have three lanes: one going, one coming, and one passing. This is supposed to be sufficient for 4 million people.
How can I write about Dakar with writing about poverty? Dakar has rough neighborhoods like DC does but I think that Dakar has more. In Dakar these neighborhoods are prime examples of abject poverty. However, I think that the poor parts of Dakar are much safer than those in DC. On the other hand there are middle-class and upper-middle-class neighborhoods nearby but farther from the city comparable to Alexandria. I live in one such neighborhood. Farther away from the city is where the huge mansions and Club Med is located. Paradoxically, Yoff, the village I lived in during October is also near there. Dakar is a city of extremes which is why it is so fascinating. In order to get to the chic areas you have to pass by shack villages and hundreds of begging children. I do not know how people could morally live in such enormous houses while their domestic help can barely afford a sack of rice.
Now if only Dakar could construct a metro system many of the urban planning traffic problems would be alleviated and I wouldn’t die of black lung from car pollution.
First and foremost in both cities the president lives in a big white house. In the US it’s the white house in Senegal it is called the Palais Presidentiel. In Dakar one of the few places you can find grass is in front of the Palais.
One of my favorite activities is watching the presidential motorcade leave the Palais. It is by far the most absurd thing. First there are a few police officers on motorcycles that lead the way, followed by huge Ford Expeditions with tinted windows and flashing blue lights, the is the presidents Mercedes with hearse-like curtains in the backseat, usually there is another Mercedes or two near his car, then there is always a not-as-nice car, followed by more Expeditions, and the bringing-up-the-back police officers on motorcycles. As he and his crew pass the gendarmerie who are called in to block traffic salute him. What makes the whole motorcade such a charade is that guns barely exist in Senegal so for anyone to do harm to the President they would have to knife him probably with a machete, which means entering his ‘Benz.
Since it is a capital city it, like DC, it is overrun with administrative buildings. Dakar is home to more ministers’ offices than you can imagine. There are also legislative buildings, as well as many government run institutions. The United Nations has a large presence in Dakar. Similarly to DC, Dakar is host to many embassies and ambassadors houses. They tend to stick out among the regular folks houses, as they are typically quite large and well manicured. Many of them are in a “suburb” called Fann near the university. Fann reminds me of the area near American University except that one part of the suburb borders the Atlantic Ocean.
The proximity to water is another similarities between the two cities. Dakar is as cosmopolitan as it is because of the presence of a port. DC has a nice port for people to park their yachts. In both cities because of the water you can find good seafood. I must say that DC is missing out on the fisherman culture. Typically Dakar fisherman fish at night from 8pm to 7am in pirogues (the boats that are also used to bring Senegalese to the Canary Islands), Watching the fishermen come back to shore in the morning is one of the most impressive sights (and smells) around. But to be fair, DC has a one-up on Dakar since it has the Smithsonians, Dakar is host to one official museum that my mother would refer to as “dinky” if she ever visited.
The people who live in Dakar have a similar pace as the people who live in DC. It is not the face pace always on the move pace of New York while it is not as laid back as other cities. You understand that people are the move but are willing to stop and talk if you engage them in conversation. Also, like in DC not many people call Dakar their home. Most people live on the outskirts of the city and commute in to work.
The traffic is comparably horrible in both places. You can easily be stuck on a crowded bus for an hour and a half when the trip should only take about ten minutes. Dakar has a serious pollution and over population problem so the commute is far more unpleasant. There have been times where I have noticed that I have arrived at my destination faster than a bus that traveled the same route. Urban planning for Dakar was minimal outside of the fact that the French administrators wanted to house all of the Africans in Dakar in an a township called Medina. Most roads have three lanes: one going, one coming, and one passing. This is supposed to be sufficient for 4 million people.
How can I write about Dakar with writing about poverty? Dakar has rough neighborhoods like DC does but I think that Dakar has more. In Dakar these neighborhoods are prime examples of abject poverty. However, I think that the poor parts of Dakar are much safer than those in DC. On the other hand there are middle-class and upper-middle-class neighborhoods nearby but farther from the city comparable to Alexandria. I live in one such neighborhood. Farther away from the city is where the huge mansions and Club Med is located. Paradoxically, Yoff, the village I lived in during October is also near there. Dakar is a city of extremes which is why it is so fascinating. In order to get to the chic areas you have to pass by shack villages and hundreds of begging children. I do not know how people could morally live in such enormous houses while their domestic help can barely afford a sack of rice.
Now if only Dakar could construct a metro system many of the urban planning traffic problems would be alleviated and I wouldn’t die of black lung from car pollution.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
10,000 girls
I spent five days in Kaolack working at the NGO (non-governmental organization) 10,000 girls (www.10000girls.org). It is by far the best NGO or project I have visited in Senegal, bar none. It is the only NGO that I have visited that is run by Senegalese people. In addition, they are not getting stuck in the rut of micro-finance. It is also not being administered from a faraway European or American. It is the only place that I can confidently say helps people. In addition, their whole premise, helping girls stay in school and succeed is amazing. The project was started when a little nine or ten year old girl knocked on an American woman, Viola Vaughn’s, door. She begged Viola to help her stay in school. At first Viola was hesitant to immerse herself in such an undertaking but she relented. She was able to teach the girl and her two friends how to teach themselves the information they are given in school. Six years later there are 1,700 girls in the program. The project is hoping to increase the number to 2,400 this year. The project has several compartments. One is an after-school program in Kaolack as well in five other zones of villages. The project also supports in-school programs targeted to help girls. The project runs with the help of five businesses. These businesses are run by women who have been excluded from school. Some never went to school and are illiterate while other only went up until middle school. The businesses that they run exceptionally well are: a bakery that caters and makes pancakes and other American delights, a local rice and high-end cashew selling project, a trucking/ transit business for their cashews and for local farmers, a sewing shop that makes quilts, sheets, tablecloths, etc, and a guest house in Kaolack. All of these projects are completely overseen by the women with a little bit of organizational help from Viola. The proceeds are split in half one half goes to the women and the other half goes to the school.
My job while there was to help with organizing ways to thank people who donated to the project. I created a newsletter with updates about the project and the businesses. As well as other little organizational tasks did at the school and in the bakery. I accompanied Viola to a village south of Kaolack where they want to create an after-school program. The village is a bit dysfunctional because they have electricity but no hook-ups and noThe most rewarding experience I had, other than talking to Viola, was
My job while there was to help with organizing ways to thank people who donated to the project. I created a newsletter with updates about the project and the businesses. As well as other little organizational tasks did at the school and in the bakery. I accompanied Viola to a village south of Kaolack where they want to create an after-school program. The village is a bit dysfunctional because they have electricity but no hook-ups and noThe most rewarding experience I had, other than talking to Viola, was
my digs in Kaolack
I spent five days in Kaolack working at an NGO (non-governmental organization). Kaolack is a small dirty city Southeast of Dakar. It was incredibly hot and infested with tons mosquitoes (that is saying a lot for Senegal). In Kaolack I lived in a house with 30 or more people. We had running water only at certain times and the rest of the times we used water from a well on the compound. The well water was actually warmers than the running water so it was a treat for me. Some of the people who lived in the house were from nearby villages who came to Kaolack for their education. Other people who lived in the house were bakers who made thick country bread in a wood-burning stove. The actual members of the family were only about seven of the inhabitants. In addition, there were many women there who helped with the cooking and cleaning but who were clearly not maids, bakers, or students. I never figured out what they did and why they lived in the house. One of the mystery women taught me how to make fataayas, which are pockets of dough filled with tuna and spiced onions. Before learning how to make them I was convinced the filling was gross mystery meat. It was nice to know that I was wrong. In any case, I had the pleasure of sharing a bed with the woman I worked with at the NGO. Occasionally I would wake up to find that one of the toddlers in the house had nestled between us sleeping peacefully and deeply. I soon found out that my room also doubled as an armoire for about ten of the houses’ inhabitants. During all hours of the day and night people would enter and take what they needed out of the enormous armoire and leave. Some of the women would undress or get dressed in the room. I, on several occasions, walked in on half naked women getting their toiletries and bathrobe for the shower. I, as the resident awkward American, averted my eyes and grabbed what I needed and left. At night I frequently awoke to people shuffling in and out. To me this constant movement of people in what I considered to be my bedroom was incredibly mind-blowing for two reasons. One, in my house in Dakar my room is my own. I lock it when I leave and people only enter if invited. I leave my door open when I am present in the room but close it if I leave it. Two, as an American I have a very particular sense of space. I need a lot of it. Whether it manifests while talking to people, driving, or a physical space to go call my own. Americans tend to use their rooms as havens for places to go to be alone, to think, to escape, to pout, to read, etc. In Senegal this is not the case. People are more community based. Old men are the only ones given the freedom to retreat to their room whenever they like. Others stay in the living room or courtyard as a large group talking and eating. Senegalese tend to share the belongings freely and generously; therefore, my preoccupation with the security of my belongings was not far off except that this family understood that toubabs do not share like Senegalese share. My things were untouched and stayed near where the extra television and DVD player was stored. Regarding bedrooms, it is common for parents with a kid or two to share a room or several siblings to share a bed. Rooms are hangout spots for younger people but the door must be kept open. Most of the time they use their rooms as a place to listen to music and make tea. Kaolack was without a doubt a true cultural experience. I am thankful that I had it.
my digs in Kaolack
I spent five days in Kaolack working at an NGO (non-governmental organization). Kaolack is a small dirty city Southeast of Dakar. It was incredibly hot and infested with tons mosquitoes (that is saying a lot for Senegal). In Kaolack I lived in a house with 30 or more people. We had running water only at certain times and the rest of the times we used water from a well on the compound. The well water was actually warmers than the running water so it was a treat for me. Some of the people who lived in the house were from nearby villages who came to Kaolack for their education. Other people who lived in the house were bakers who made thick country bread in a wood-burning stove. The actual members of the family were only about seven of the inhabitants. In addition, there were many women there who helped with the cooking and cleaning but who were clearly not maids, bakers, or students. I never figured out what they did and why they lived in the house. One of the mystery women taught me how to make fataayas, which are pockets of dough filled with tuna and spiced onions. Before learning how to make them I was convinced the filling was gross mystery meat. It was nice to know that I was wrong. In any case, I had the pleasure of sharing a bed with the woman I worked with at the NGO. Occasionally I would wake up to find that one of the toddlers in the house had nestled between us sleeping peacefully and deeply. I soon found out that my room also doubled as an armoire for about ten of the houses’ inhabitants. During all hours of the day and night people would enter and take what they needed out of the enormous armoire and leave. Some of the women would undress or get dressed in the room. I, on several occasions, walked in on half naked women getting their toiletries and bathrobe for the shower. I, as the resident awkward American, averted my eyes and grabbed what I needed and left. At night I frequently awoke to people shuffling in and out. To me this constant movement of people in what I considered to be my bedroom was incredibly mind-blowing for two reasons. One, in my house in Dakar my room is my own. I lock it when I leave and people only enter if invited. I leave my door open when I am present in the room but close it if I leave it. Two, as an American I have a very particular sense of space. I need a lot of it. Whether it manifests while talking to people, driving, or a physical space to go call my own. Americans tend to use their rooms as havens for places to go to be alone, to think, to escape, to pout, to read, etc. In Senegal this is not the case. People are more community based. Old men are the only ones given the freedom to retreat to their room whenever they like. Others stay in the living room or courtyard as a large group talking and eating. Senegalese tend to share the belongings freely and generously; therefore, my preoccupation with the security of my belongings was not far off except that this family understood that toubabs do not share like Senegalese share. My things were untouched and stayed near where the extra television and DVD player was stored. Regarding bedrooms, it is common for parents with a kid or two to share a room or several siblings to share a bed. Rooms are hangout spots for younger people but the door must be kept open. Most of the time they use their rooms as a place to listen to music and make tea. Kaolack was without a doubt a true cultural experience. I am thankful that I had it.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
street snacking
My favorite street snacks for under $1-
• Peanut brittle – 2 cents a piece or 10 cents a bag.
• Grilled peanuts- 5 cents a bag
• Sugar peanuts- 5 cents a bag
• Green apples- 50 cents a piece
• Red apples- 60 cents a piece
• Grapefruit- 50 cents a piece
• Bananas- between 25- 40 cents a piece
• Oranges- 25 cents a piece
• Thaickery (cooked millet with curdled milk or yogurt) 60 cents a container
• Omelet sandwich- 55 cents
• Fattaayas (fried dough filled with chopped meat and onions) - 50 cents for 5
• Beignets- 25 cents for 5
• Hibiscus juice- 10 cents a bag
• Ditah juice- 50 cents a bag
• Baobab juice- 50 cents a bag
• Peanut brittle – 2 cents a piece or 10 cents a bag.
• Grilled peanuts- 5 cents a bag
• Sugar peanuts- 5 cents a bag
• Green apples- 50 cents a piece
• Red apples- 60 cents a piece
• Grapefruit- 50 cents a piece
• Bananas- between 25- 40 cents a piece
• Oranges- 25 cents a piece
• Thaickery (cooked millet with curdled milk or yogurt) 60 cents a container
• Omelet sandwich- 55 cents
• Fattaayas (fried dough filled with chopped meat and onions) - 50 cents for 5
• Beignets- 25 cents for 5
• Hibiscus juice- 10 cents a bag
• Ditah juice- 50 cents a bag
• Baobab juice- 50 cents a bag
knives and forks
Morocco is a popular travel destination for many tourists both American and European for its’ mix of exotic culture and sophistication. Unlike black Africans, Moroccans are not seen as backwards or savage. Yet, my Moroccan boyfriend who comes from a middle class family had never used a knife and fork to eat before coming to Senegal. Eating with knives and forks is a sign of social competence. It signals a certain sophistication especially when done in a certain European fashion. Mastery of cutlery is noticed at social functions and is seen my many parents as a skill they must impart on their children. My Moroccan’s awareness of cutlery was used a large knife to open cans or butcher meat. Spoons are used to cook with but not to eat with. Bread becomes both the spoon and fork while the thumb is a knife. He told me about his first day of work in Senegal and how he was given a plate of food accompanied by a knife and fork. He sat their baffled looking at his Senegalese counterparts adeptly cutting the meat and placing it in their mouths. He watched and attempted to imitate getting food all over his lap. The next day he told me about how he shut himself up in his office. He ate lunch by himself trying to get the hang of silverware. While home in Morocco for a visit after having mastered the tools he took his mother out to lunch and asked to be given a knife and fork. She asked him “What are you going to do with those things.” When she watched him eat with them she said, “ What’s wrong with bread and your hands?” Now two years later he is the knife and fork professional and has begun to teach me how to eat with my right hand. Believe me it is a lot harder than it looks.
boy
My host mother fired the maid a few weeks ago for various reasons. She did so at the most inopportune time because all of the eligible maids were beginning to go back to their villages to celebrate Tabaski. I think as soon as she fired her she regretted it because of all the work it gave her. The laundry piled up, she became responsible for the cooking, and had to do most of the cleaning. When either Damien or I offered to help her she refused or let us help just a little bit while all the time complaining about all the work she had to do. Her way of searching for a new maid was to talk to every person she encountered and explained her situation. She visited neighbors’ houses and talked to their maids. The topic of a maid was always on her tongue. I think she became pretty worn down. I left for vacation while she was still maid-less.
When I called to check up on the family she told me with great pleasure that she had found someone to do the housework, “a boy” named Mamadou. I was home for his first day of work. My host mom stayed with him the entire day instructing him about how to clean the house and telling him what to do next. These conversations were conducted in French because Mamadou is Guinean and does not speak Wolof. Our other maid did not speak a lick of French and therefore I was lucky enough not to be able to really understand what was being said to her. I don’t think my host family treats Mamadou poorly I just do not like evident class division and some of the expectations they have for him, like he must work on Tabaski when most “maids” have off.
When my host parents refer to Mamadou they refer to him as “the boy.” It disgusts me because that is what slave owners called their adult male slaves. Mamadou and I are about the same age; yet, I have the privilege of going to school and not having any working commitments. I find it awkward that he has to clean my 27-year-old host brother’s room everyday.
On the other hand, having a male clean the house is a progressive action. Who in the United States would trust a young man clean their house. Most people would be too afraid he would break something or that he would do a terrible job. Other people would not dare leave him alone in the house for fear that he would steal. Here in Senegal, which has very strict gender codes that are in favor of women being the sole responsible for work within the household it is acceptable for a male to clean our house. My family has met some criticism even within the house, mainly from my host brother who thinks that men are incapable of cleaning. He probably thinks that because he is lazy and would not know how to sweep if a broom was attached to his arm. My host mom thinks that Mamadou is excellent and is a good cleaner; although, she is not impressed with his attendance record. I always wonder what he is thinking and how he feels to be one of the only males who cleans’ houses. What goes through his head when he is wiping down our front door and the neighborhood bums are drinking attaaya and watching him or when he brings the garbage to the garbage truck with all of the neighborhood maids. I doubt he will stay at our house for a long time because of both societial pressure and because of some of his expectations.
When I called to check up on the family she told me with great pleasure that she had found someone to do the housework, “a boy” named Mamadou. I was home for his first day of work. My host mom stayed with him the entire day instructing him about how to clean the house and telling him what to do next. These conversations were conducted in French because Mamadou is Guinean and does not speak Wolof. Our other maid did not speak a lick of French and therefore I was lucky enough not to be able to really understand what was being said to her. I don’t think my host family treats Mamadou poorly I just do not like evident class division and some of the expectations they have for him, like he must work on Tabaski when most “maids” have off.
When my host parents refer to Mamadou they refer to him as “the boy.” It disgusts me because that is what slave owners called their adult male slaves. Mamadou and I are about the same age; yet, I have the privilege of going to school and not having any working commitments. I find it awkward that he has to clean my 27-year-old host brother’s room everyday.
On the other hand, having a male clean the house is a progressive action. Who in the United States would trust a young man clean their house. Most people would be too afraid he would break something or that he would do a terrible job. Other people would not dare leave him alone in the house for fear that he would steal. Here in Senegal, which has very strict gender codes that are in favor of women being the sole responsible for work within the household it is acceptable for a male to clean our house. My family has met some criticism even within the house, mainly from my host brother who thinks that men are incapable of cleaning. He probably thinks that because he is lazy and would not know how to sweep if a broom was attached to his arm. My host mom thinks that Mamadou is excellent and is a good cleaner; although, she is not impressed with his attendance record. I always wonder what he is thinking and how he feels to be one of the only males who cleans’ houses. What goes through his head when he is wiping down our front door and the neighborhood bums are drinking attaaya and watching him or when he brings the garbage to the garbage truck with all of the neighborhood maids. I doubt he will stay at our house for a long time because of both societial pressure and because of some of his expectations.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
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.
• 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?
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?
Monday, November 13, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
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.
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