Where is Libby now? part 2

Hello again from the fiancé! Libby left Tuesday morning for a day and half bus trip to start her second village-stay. Before heading to villages, the SIT group will stop and be temporarily based in Kédougou. Where is Kédougou? you may ask. Well, check out these satellite images, courtesy of Google Earth:


as always, you may click the picture to see it full-size.

Let me explain this just a little bit. Kédougou is in the southeast corner of the country. I'm not 100% sure, but I think the white stuff clouding the view of the ground are, well, clouds. If you look closely, there is a white line parallel to the straight line distance between Dakar and Kédougou. The distance between the cities is about 620 km or 385 miles. The line is also about that distance, which I discovered about the distance of Denver to Salt Lake City. Too bad for Libby, she didn't sound like she would have the comfort of roads as smooth as I-70...

This second image is just for fun. For those that didn't know, Timbuktu is a real place; it is a city in Mali. It is visible on this map showing Dakar, Kédougou and Timbuktu and a number of other countries nearby:



In case you are interested, the distance from where Libby is to Timbuktu is about 1090km or 675 miles. That's about the distance from Denver to Dallas. Not that close, I know, but closer than most of us will ever get, I imagine.

So that is about where Libby is. Cool, n'est-ce pas? She mentioned she may make it back to Dakar in time for All Saint's Day (Nov 01), or in Senegal, (la fête) de la Toussaint. While it is a primarily Muslim country, there is enough holdover in the culture from French colonialism and the resulting Catholic faith that La Toussaint is still a holiday. Not a bad deal eh?

Keep her in your prayers. I, like you, can't wait to hear her stories!

À bientôt!

The Last...

The last day of Ramadan is nearing its end! Tomorrow the entire country (well, the 95% majority of Muslims here... and me... ) will be celebrating Korite, or Eids. That is the feast that marks the end of the holy month of Ramadan in the Muslim faith. During the month, faithful Muslims are called to fast from several things, most notably food and drink, during the daylight hours. The purpose of the fast is, in part, to better understand what life is always like for those who have nothing to eat or drink. I, for reasons of cultural solidarity and personal challenge, have been fasting as well. The days have been long, and my concentration, energy levels and overall friendliness were sometimes sacrificed, but I am glad I did it. I'm also glad it's over.

While it will be refreshing for the blanket of crankiness to be lifted from the countenences of the public, I will be missing one part of the past month. At sundown, which has been just before 7:00 PM lately, there is a small meal called "ndogou" in Wolof. It is my favorite part of Ramadan. Dates, baguettes and grabbing hands abound around the table, while I sit back and pour my Kenkaliba tea. The tea (which is my favorite sub-part of Ramadan) is a sweet tisane infusion mixed with lots of sugar and powdered milk. Unfortunately, I was usually in such a rush to consume some sugar into my blood stream that the delectible taste of Kenkaliba was more often than not accompanied by a searing burn to the tongue. Ramadan is also good for learning patience.

Tonight marks the last day of Ramadan, and also the last time that you'll hear from me for about a week and a half or so. I will be traveling with the other students to Kedougou, on the other side the country. Twelve hours of bumpy bus ride, and another village stay to look forward to! Keep me in your prayers...

Alas, another last has come: the last minute in the internet cafe before it closes down for the night. Peace to all, and I'll reappear in the Blog world in November!

More Pictures!!!

click on a picture to see it bigger.

Sorry these are rather unorganized and only come a few at a time... it's the best I can do until back in the States, I'm afraid.


Meet Bessy, my new acquaintance. Yes, I am milking her. And yes, that is my hair. Experience and subsequent image courtesy of the friendly cowherd neighbors at Ker Sadaro. After learning how hard it actually is to milk a cow, I think I shall drink my tall, cold glasses a little more slowly now.



My minions!!! These four children live at my house. From left to right, Ahmed, Bebe Cheikh, Bachir and Bebe Fa (short for Fatima). I'd include their ages, but the truth is, I'm not entirely sure what they are. Bebe Cheikh's mom told me that he is one and half, while my guess was around three. Bachir told me Bebe Fa is four, my brother Momo guessed she was probably around three, and she told me she is in fact twenty one.



This is my room in the Samb house. My bed is a few inches of foam pad between me and the wooden boards of the frame. Note the princess-style mosquito net.



The tangled beauty of Zone B, Dakar. This is the view from my window.

Traffic 101

The Art of Taxis in Senegal:
I have never hailed a cab in the United States, but I imagine that the experience is significantly different here. I thought it would be a good idea to give you a little insight into the cultural jewel that is the Senegalese Taximan.

I have grown accustomed to the way taxi drivers will honk, slow to a crawl and fix their eyes expectantly on me as I walk to school (or anywhere, for that matter). At this crucial moment, it is very important to avoid brushing a strand of hair out of my face, itching my ear, swatting a fly, or making any other gesture that might possibly be construed as a hail. Since my colleagues and I are quite obviously foreigners, it is assumed in the taxi world that we have no idea where we are going and most definitely need their assistance. When that happens to be the case, the first step (after making a point to greet them in Wolof, of course) is negotiating a price. The conversation usually sounds like this:

"La Grande Catherale downtown?"
"2,000 francs."
"No, that is much too expensive..." (In reality, this is about four dollars) "...I know how much it should cost: 500 francs."
"That is much too little. Traffic is heavy. 900."
"Traffic is always heavy! It is not that far. 600."

At this point, either I begin to walk away, clicking my tongue, or the taxi driver rolls a few inches until someone gives. Sometimes it takes a few cabs to get down to a reasonable price, and it is always beneficial to throw in as many Wolof words as possible. And thus the delicate ritual of the cab ride begins.

The next step is to slide into the often smelly, torn-up back seat and hold on for dear life as Dakar passes by. Sometimes, the driver will stop for gas or to ask directions. Once, a cab driver pulled the taxi onto the sidewalk and crossed the street to talk to some policemen. Sitting in the idling car, my three friends and I looked bewildered at each other and waited. After several minutes, we got out, miffed. We found another taxi.

Taxis aside, there is a wonderful little phenomenom on the streets of Dakar called car rapides. I took one for the very first time just a few days ago. As a form of "communal transportation," one can flag down a car rapide and hop on or off with relative ease. Payment is usually whatever the smallest coin in one's purse is, and the route is wherever people happen to be headed. It is often very crowded on the inside. But what is most notable about car rapides is their exterior. These mini buses exhibit as much color as the women's clothing here in Senegal. Writing and pictures of all colors are painted on a bright blue and sunny yellow base, often with "Alhamdullila (Arabic for "Thanks be to God") splayed across the sides. They bump along like some fantastical cartoon in the midst of the otherwise dreary traffic. While generally much less "rapide" than taxis, I find them to be by far preferable.

Traffic in Senegal is terribly chaotic, as it is in many underdeveloped countries. In the US, we can safely expect motorists to understand and follow basic traffic laws, (with the exception of the occasional crazies, usually hailing from California. It's proven.) Although speeding and road rage are common complaints on American roads and highways, there is a system of organization that is almost completely lacking in Senegal. And yet, painting lines on the roads or improving signage alone will not have much effect. The attitude of all our friendly taxi and car rapide drivers, along with other Senegalese behind the wheel must change; herein lies the challenge.

I was fascinated to see a television advertisement sponsored by the Department of Transportation, the only evidence I've seen of an attempt to improve the traffic situation. It featured seemingly simple trivia questions (for example, does the pedestrian have the right-of-way on a crosswalk?) and then prompted the public to text-message their responses in for the chance to win prizes. I'm not sure I'd like to see how many answered incorrectly. Judging from the absolute exhilaration I experience after successfully crossing the street, life intact, I could venture a guess.

Traffic is one of the topics that has struck me (thank God only figuratively!) here in Senegal. Although the subject itself seems so mundane, there are so many developmental and cultural elements that it displays. Not least of all, traffic can be a very real example of what "under-developed" actually means. For, with improved traffic laws comes improved safety, improved transport of goods, less fuel wasted in traffic jams, and fewer work hours lost in commute. And less time in smelly taxis. Something to think about next time you are waiting for hours at the DMV or are paying a speeding ticket, n'est-ce pas?

Some Pictures!!!

Click the picture to see it bigger!


Cheerleading, Senegalese style! The sidelines at the Ker Sadaro soccer match


Djembe lessons under the baobab tree at Le Village Des Arts


Grande Bineta et Petite Bineta


Senegalese Models: my friend Caitlin and I sporting our newly-purchased mbubus. We even negotiated the price with the vendor ourselves.


The kids around my house provide constant entertainment. Pictured here are Bebe Fa, Bebe Cheikh and Oumi

Ker Sadaro

The past few days have found twenty SIT students lounging on the island of St. Louis, once capitol of all colonial French West Africa. While our academics have continued, our time here has served as a sort of cultural respite after our first village stay. Lodged in a cushy, air-conditioned hotel overlooking the eastern arm of the Senegal River, I consider the experiences of the past week.

Saturday last week we arrived in the little village of Ker Sadaro, just a bit of a drive outside of Thies. Our arrival was everything one might imagine--hordes of curious children ran alongside our bus as we approached our destination. The commotion that welcomed us consisted of tiny hands beating out complex rhythms on a large, overturned metal bowl, excited shouts and greetings, and an incredulous voice in my mind that kept asking, "am I really here right now? Is this really where I am??" Other than the children, it was the women of the village who welcomed us. Each was dressed in brightly-colored fabric, loose enough around the arms to be considered indecent exposure. Many had infants secured to their backs, worn so naturally as to have been accessories to their fabulous outfits. As each of us was called by name, we were presented to a matriarch who, dancing to the beat of the metal bowl, took our hands and led us each away. I was one of the last ones called, and a rotund and contagiously happy woman wrapped her arm around mine ane took me home, surrounded by an entourage of little ones. She gave me the name Bousso Seck.

After making introductions and settling my luggage into my room, my family was anxious to set out for the night's big event: Ker Sadaro's soccer team was playing a nearby village rival. The whole village was there, with all the other SIT students dispersed about the crowd. It was the perfect introduction to the community. Sitting on the sidelines, I watched with surprise the young girls dressed to the max, many in tight Western clothes with silver dangly earrings, cheering on the team. I watched as all of the men in the village rushed the field after a goal while the married women danced in celebration on the sidelines, shouting and laughing. I watched as four goats wandered innocently onto the playing field to the entertainment of all on-lookers, and were frantically chased away before interrupting the game. It all ended somewhat suddenly as the sun began to set, with a final score of Ker Sadaro: 2, other village: 0.

The next morning, after my first-ever successful bucket shower, my host mom indicated that I was to go to visit a nearby family member. As an escort, I was accompanied by Bubu. I'd guess his age to be about three. I felt a little more than slight apprehension when I'd realized he alone was to lead me to my destination, especially since I had no idea where it was. Additionally, chivalric little Bubu insisted on carrying my 1.5 litre water bottle for me, which was half of his entire body mass. We left the compound and crossed the main road, but my little guide was indeed competent; he led me to the house of my host father's brother, in a neighboring village. The scene that greeted me as I entered the compound involved a man, a chicken and a knife. I have gained new insight into the phrase: "running around like a chicken with it's head cut off." In the hours that followed, I was also taught how to say "I am plucking a chicken" in Wolof. That's right, folks. I was lucky enough to arrive on the day of the slaughter. The rest of my morning involved the aforementioned chicken and about one hundred of her friends, boiling water, lots of feathers, and getting my hands good and dirty with village life.

The remainder of my stay at Ker Sadaro passed quietly and vividly. Time passed differently in the village, and I actually chose to leave my watch behind during the trip. As a result, I have no idea how many minutes it took my host mother to put all those tiny braids into my hair. I do know that I had enough time to read about 100 pages in my book. Likewise, my mid-day nap lasted about a 20 degree change in the angle of the sun. Our dinner and following discussions were set to the pace of the Milky Way's voyage across the sky. Two full days and three nights later, I feel as though I have visited another world, removed from the life I know not only by thousands of miles, but by time and development, and something else not quite describable.

My host mother took great delight in teaching me a few words that I took to be some ancient traditional chant:

Ker Sadaro neex na la!
Bousso Seck beggul nibi!

As it turns out, it really means:

Ker Sadaro's really cool!
Bousso Seck (my village name) doesn't want to leave!