The first week of classes

The first week of classes is nearing its end. I think I can easily say that a week of classes has never been so educational for me in any other circumstance. All of us students here at SIT feel almost like infants, thrown suddenly into a world of new stimuli, trying at every waking moment to make sense of it all. Oh, how I long for a naptime here or there!

I've spent the past week getting used to the class schedule and pace of SIT, and settling in with my host family. Aside from the dizzying conversations in Wolof, the cockroaches in the shower, the antics of 6-year-old Bachir and 4-year-old Bebe Fa, I've simply been trying to figure out what this Senegal place is really all about. Here is an example of an experience I had this week. I wrote it down in my journal a few days ago:


9 September
Two days ago, I gave my first presentation in class. I spoke about an article which explored the roles and activities of "griots," the musician caste, in modern-day Senegal. Griots honor the age-old tradition of singing the praises of members of the noble class, then collecting the obligatory payment. Historically, griots were born into a relationship with a certain noble family. Modern day griots will visit the houses of the descendents of "their" nobles," sing or play drums, dance and praise the family, then refuse to go away until they feel they have been sufficiently (read: monetarily) appreciated. They have extended this practice to any noble families, or even toubabs, or those of European descent. Two days ago, I read this in an article and presented it to my class. Tonight, I lived it.

My second day staying with the family Samb, I was reading over some of my studies and watching Senegalese music videos in the TV room with some family members, when I heard a commotion in the street (meaning the usual shouts and screams of children were a little higher than their normal decibal level). I asked Lamine, one of the men who lives here...I think... (uncle? brother? cousin?) what was going on, and he said it was the dancers. Impossibly, the mixture of drum hits, children screaming and whistles blowing became louder still, and I realized that the crowd had entered the house! Toute de suite I was outside the room, staring at the thirty strangers surrounding the three drummers who had taken over the downstairs area. What on earth was happening? I wondered, my mind far from my academics earlier in the week. I watched with wide, blue eyes as the drummers played along, and out of the crowd someone placed a bank note inside one of their mouths. As suddenly as they had arrived, they were out in the street again. "Je peux les suivre?" I asked my aunt. Can I follow them? "Oui, allez-y!" And I hurried out to catch the traveling crowd.

As I followed the drummers, hordes of dancing children and onlookers down the street, I befriended a girl named Ana. We walked together as the musicians continued into another part of the neighborhood. We caught up to them in time for me to hear excited Wolof interspersed with "Americaine."

"Bineta!" (for that is my new Senegalese name: Bineta Samb) "Bineta, tu vas danser!" Ana said. You're going to dance! "Oh, non, je ne sais pas danser!" No, I don't know how to! (For the Sabar dancing is very technical.) But the crowd was now surrounding me, and I was facing a lively, sweaty drummer who was gesturing excitedly. "We....are....(something to the side in Wolof) ...griots..... You are....American. You dance!!" And so I danced. He demonstrated a simple step, a sort of jiggling walk, and looked back to me in expectation. I did likewise, to the hysterics of all onlookers. "Now, you give (gesturing) money!" I had purposely left any money at the house, so I used some of the Wolof I have learned to say "Amuma xaalis!" I don't have money. Culturally insensitive to withold payment? Perhaps. Ana encouraged me in French, He wants anything you can give, so I removed a beaded bracelet and presented it to him. He was disappointed, but made a show of accepting it, then moved on.

After things had calmed down, Ana walked back with me. As we approached the house where I live, I told her "J'habite ici." I live here. "Oui, I know," she said. "My grandmere lives here." Of course.