Keeping with current trends, I decided to post my final thoughts an entire month after my return. Yes, this was a conscious decision that had nothing to do with the holiday season, the largest snowfall this winter, the general ecstasy of being back home or my incurable tendency to procrastinate. Totally deliberate.

In truth, I may have been avoiding this capstone to my trip, however trivial it may actually be, because I've been waiting for everything from the past four months to soak itself into me in the convenient form of a clever summation. No such luck. Senegal, when I am able to convince myself that it actually happened, remains a mess of smells, sounds, sights, insights, frustrations, joys and unforgettable times and faces jumbled in my memory. Am I glad I did it? Absolutely. Do I miss it? Distantly, momentarily and yes, indefinitely. A few days ago I was rummaging in my own kitchen for something to eat, and I actually craved ceebujen. I thought of the evenings during Ramadan and Khadi's burning-hot kenkeliba tea when I tried to brew my own and it just didn't work. I began singing a children's song that had been stuck in my head before I realized it was one of Bebe Fa's. I ate a bowl of chili last night for dinner that, before Senegal, would probably have been too spicy for my liking. I hardly tasted it at all. I randomly say things in Wolof. Degg la.

A few days ago I attended an all-school convocation at the Lamont School of Music featuring the ever-talented dance troupe of Cleo Parker Robinson. For us music students, they demonstrated several different techniques that they learn as a studio. One of them was "African dance." Not expecting it to resemble the distinctive style of Sabar, I was surprised by the wave of recognition that passed through me as I watched the dancers' fluid movements. I had relived many parts of my trip before then: while sharing my written thoughts, exhibiting my photos or recounting an anecdote. Back in the music building though, back on campus, back in America, my home, I watched the familiar dancing before me and realized that Senegal is in my blood. It will always be. It has become a part of my life and a part of my being and will pulse through my veins in characteristic rhythm wherever else life takes me.

Until next time, my Senegal, God willing.

My last week in Senegal involved nine hours worth of Independent Study Project presentations, a final djembe lesson, goodbyes and ba beneen yoons to my host family, lots of sabar drumming and dancing, two rhinoceroses, a village made out of shells, a crab race, a last run of the markets, many hours at the beach, and what seemed like many more hours of packing. Waaw waaw. If you want more details (perhaps about the rhinos) I apologize. You will have to wait until I return to America and regain my composure. All of that has left my head spinning, and it will continue spinning right onto that plane that will lift me up out of Dakar and back to my comfy American life.

After writing a 25 page paper, filling out evaluations of the semester and spending hours reading through my several journals from the past few months, one might think I'd be able to articulately express what this semester has been like, and how I feel about coming home. But as it is, I feel an overwhelming sense of mental block. All I know is that I am getting on that plane very early tomorrow morning--early enough that it still counts as tonight--and coming home. At the thought my gut jumps a little, then sinks a little, then ponders the ceebujen for lunch a little. And I can find no words to say.

So please, faithful audience, accept my gratitude for your support and interest throughout these past months, it has been fun sharing with you. I imagine the twenty-four hours of planes and airports will afford me a little time to reflect. Then, my very own computer access will afford me some photo-posting abilities. At any rate, I'll be putting some more thoughts into this little blog here. But the words you read from here on out will be typed on a boring old American keyboard (which I will have to reacquaint myself with), and not in any tropical cyber cafe in urban West Africa.

Ba beneen yoon, sama Senegal, inchalla.

Pinch Punch, First of the Month!

That's to get you back, Mike!

Well hello there everyone. Please forgive the recent dearth of blog productivity on my part. I have been busy working on the final portion of my academic semester here, the Independent Study Project (ISP). A few days ago, I returned from a week-long trip into the interior of the country, to a village called Fimela. Well, and to the city of Fatick. And to eight other villages in the immediate area benifitting from the presence of the NGO (Non-Governmental Organization) I have been working with in research, World Vision. What I was doing in those villages was examining the impact of child sponsorship, a particular form of international aid. I imagine many of you have seen the big-eyed faces of foreign children in photographs tacked to refrigerators by their proud, state-side sponsors. I know for a fact that some of you see them in your very own kitchens, a reminder every time you reach for the milk of a life across the world, linked with yours by a monthly check. What do these big eyes see as a result of their sponsored status? That's what I was going to find out.

Well, they didn't have any refrigerators in the villages I visited, but I saw more than one picture of smiling sponsors presented to me by World Vision children. That is not to say the responses were all the same when I asked these children about their sponsors, the term translated as "toubab friend" by my WV-employed interpreter. Some didn't know the name or country behind the letters delivered on occasion, but others readily produced pictures or little gifts they got from their xarit toubab. What is certain is, even if the individual relationship between sponsor and child was weak, the presence of World Vision in developmental and collaborative projects in their communities was strong and visible. And, in my novice opinion, they're doing a pretty good job.

The task that lies before me now is to figure out how to explain all of that to twenty to thirty pages of paper, waiting in the printer of an internet cafe somewhere, for me to come decorate their blank surfaces with all of my ideas.

More to come, once at least some of those pages are properly clothed.

Next on Food Network

I hope you're feeling hungry and adventurous, because today, you get a crash course in the fine art of Senegalese dining! Be forewarned: "low-carb" has not yet found its way into Wolof culinary vocabulary.

My eating adventures start out each day in my bedroom, when Khadi, the maid, serves breakfast to me on a platter after my morning shower. Once, I had eggs. The very first day. Ever since then, it has unfailingly consisted of a baguette, slightly stale.


At least its contents vary. Sometimes, my baguette is covered on the inside with Chocoleca, a chocolate-peanut spread. It is the Senegalese equivalent (dare I make such a comparison?!) to my time-honored favorite, Nutella. Other times, a vitamin-A fortified margarine spread adorns its soft, refined-flour innards. Maybe once or twice I've discovered "La vache qui rit" (Laughing Cow) cheesey spread. Breakfast is the only meal in Senegal that is accompanied with a beverage- a mixture of instant Nescafe, powdered milk, lots of sugar and hot water. As my roommates in Denver all know (and have eventually come to accept), I am not a coffee drinker. As far as I'm concerned, my daily consumption of Nescafe-flavored sugar-milk does little to threaten this standing.

Lunch is served around two or three in the afternoon, and dinner comes between eight and ten at night. Besides the time of day they are served, though, there are no distinguishing characteristics between the two meals that I have detected. Either can consist of the Senegalese standard favorites, including onion-based yassa, mafe with veggies and palm-oil and the highly favored national dish, ceebujen (literally translated, "fish of rice").

For meals, a woven mat is unrolled for people to sit on. A dented metal platter with a diameter of about eighteen inches is placed in the middle, within everyone's right-hand reach. Shoes are removed before we sit, some on the floor and some on little stools. Sometimes there are spoons, and sometimes we just eat with our hands (as you spaghetti-lovers might recall). More often, there are pieces of baguette that each person takes and tears into morsels to use as utensils. (Mom, Dad, remember how you used to yell at me for picking at my dinner rolls all the time? Turns out it was good practice.) Meals, including those listed above, usually consist of mutton, beef or whole fish, served with a spicy sauce and rice. Meat is deftly torn apart with one hand, and sometimes distributed into a neighbor's section of the platter as a gesture of generosity. Bones, gristle and otherwise unwanted chewed material are let out of the mouth. Not spit. Just let out. Try it sometime, it's actually surprisingly difficult. Little is said, and after a few minutes, someone gets up, washes his hand in the bathroom, and resumes whatever his business was before dinner. Meanwhile, I disappear into my bedroom to down a half-liter of water to help put out the oil-fire in my mouth.



Here is a picture of laax (prounounced like "lock", with a little gargle at the end).

The lower layer is some type of boiled grain as a base. Poured on top of it is a mixture of lots of sugar, orange-blossom flavoring, vanilla and lait-caillé. I once asked someone how lait-caillé is made, and their answer confirmed what I had been told, but could not previously believe. Lait-caillé is made by leaving milk out for a couple of days--it actually is milk gone sour. The most surprising thing about laax, dear readers? It is delicious.

And pictured here is what I imagine to be the closest thing the good country of Senegal will ever come to experiencing tuna fish casserole.


When I announced at lunch that the next day, I would be cooking an all-American favorite to share with everyone for lunch, my family was at first incredulous. Then, they instructed me to only make a little, because they might not be "used to it." (If they only knew what my stomach has had to say about that for the past two and a half months!) So I went to a nearby market and purchased canned peas, mushrooms (which they had not seen before), cream, tuna and pre-shredded French cheese of some sort. When you travel, you learn to make do with what is available. The fam looked on with curiousity and not a little apprehension as I mixed my strange concoction over the gas stove. When it was ready, I spread it out onto a platter, and invited them to dig in. Bebe Fa did, and she liked it. Bachir did not. Nor did he do anything to mask its effects from his face. The other adults were gracious with their expressions of "Neex na," "It's delicious," but their consumption lacked a certain zeal. Ilana, another American student who lives with the family across the street, had joined me for moral support. She's the one who took the picture. Laughing unstoppably at the various reactions around the platter, she and I ended up eating more than our fair portion of the American classic. For those who were "still hungry," ceebujen was served about an hour later.

There was a little left over, so I was instructed to put it into the refrigerator for later. The next day, I caught sight of my host-grandmother, who did not join the feast the day before, peeking into the bowl with a very concerned look on her face.

(In case you're wondering, I don't have any idea what the story is with that doll. I had never seen it before and have never seen it since. Sometimes it is best not to ask questions.)

I perhaps misled you when describing this humble little blog entry as a crash course in Senegalese cuisine. I definitely did when I called it a full-length feature. What I merely provided here were a few little descriptions of an every-day adventure. There is so much more to describe! I won't kid anyone by trying to convince you I am learning how to cook Senegalese food. But, there is a nice little Senegalese restaurant in Denver called "The Baobab" that I am already excited about taking people to for lunch. There, you can taste all the intricacies of ceebujen for yourself, or simply sip on the delectible, refreshing jus de bissap, made from hibiscus flowers. If you are interested, however, be aware that I will make you eat with your hands.

One Month Left

The first blog entry I ever had the pleasure of composing (at your scrolling disposal, conveniently below) was posted exactly one month before my departure. This is its twin, posted one month before my return to the States. I regard December fifteenth hesitantly, out of the corner of my eye. In one sense, I long for its arrival every day. I think about the plane that will bring me home every time one flies overhead. With the coming of every vibrant experience here, I rehearse how I might recount it as a vibrant memory at home. It is not at all that Senegal has been a negative experience, but it has been hard. Still, I feel like a kid who has been homesick all summer only to realize, in the finality of mom and dad rolling up in the minivan, what fun summer camp has actually been. I have missed home for two and a half months now, but I have always known exactly when I would return to it. When I get on that plane in a month from today, I will begin to miss Senegal indefinitely.

I still have much to do between now and then, though. In the middle of last week, the SIT program began the period of the ISP: Independent Study Project. The remainder of November is dedicated to individual research on a topic of interest to each student, to be summarized in an oral and written report as our final academic hurrah for the semester. I have chosen to investigate the role and success of child sponsorship as a method of sustainable development in rural villages in Senegal. Sounds impressive, doesn't it? Sounds like I know what I'm doing. Sounds like I am totally experienced and comfortable interviewing and making contacts in a foreign country where I don't actually speak Wolof. Some cellphones sound like Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. But do they really?

I am getting better at eating with my hands, at least. We had spaghetti once again just last night for dinner, and I must confess, I may have had a smug look on my face as I rolled, folded, spun and plopped the contents of my hand expertly into my mouth. My family may have wondered what I was looking so smug about, especially when the inevitable few morsels landed on my lap. I think I have progressed rather well, nonetheless.

Which reminds me: tune in next time for a full-length special feature on food!

Snapshots

On 3 November 2004, I remember driving up to Boulder nervously, listening to Ben Folds Rockin the Suburbs to distract me during the drive. I was headed to Red Robin to meet up with an intriguing guy I had recently met. He removed his hat for dinner. He paid. He walked me to my car. He neglected to ask for a second meeting. And so Mike and I parted after juicy burgers and long conversation, neither of us certain of whether we had just gone on a date or not. As it turns out we had.

Soon we will upgrade to a new anniversary, a "real" one, if you will, but this is to say that I love you Mike, and going to dinner with you two years ago was the best choice I ever made. Here's to many more years of meals together!

But for now, I am indeed still in Senegal. My mother recently requested more photos, just to make sure I'm still alive. While actual pictures are not quite available at this moment, I do have some verbal snapshots of this past week. Two days ago, I returned from our second and final village stay, based out of Kedougou, the largest city in Southeast Senegal (See the maps below - thanks Mike!). Italicized are extracts from journal entries I made en route.

On 24 October I departed via bus for Kedougou. Once out of the city, I got a good long look at the savannah from my coveted window seat:
The landscape rushes by, endless green. The grasses and undergrowth have never scratched my ankles as I trod on them. I've never run my fingers over the bark of these trees, or stared into their branches at the sky beyond. I've never plucked their leaves to rub between my fingers and release their fresh scent. These plains are a cousin to those I know so well, and yet they are so unfamiliar. A farmer's head bobs above the green, the rest of his body hidden by his crops, his livelihood. Every so often appears a collection of roofs shaped like Hershey kisses, half-melted in the thick heat of the savannah. A life-long home to how many?

After a while:
To stretch our legs a bit, our group dismounted the bus to walk across the bridge above the Gambia River. Below, they were working. In Dakar, buckets are the all-purpose cleaning accessory: laundry, dishes, bath, etc. Here, it was the river. A young girl looked up to me passing above, and brightened her squinted face with a smile more warming than the mid-day sun, and waved. Next to her, a woman lost hold of a large pot she had been washing. She plunged into the river after it, surprisingly unhurried, and returned successfully to our cheers coming from above. The girl beside her had begun bathing, and was scrubbing vigorously her suds-covered body. Again, she looked up to me, again she offered her smile; it stuck with me as I returned to the bus with a warm satisfaction. I tucked her away into my memory. An hour to Kedougou.

When we arrived in Kedougou, we had a few days before dispersing into our village host families. During these days we as a group went on a couple of hikes, to my elation. The first hike was to the Beddick village of Etchwar, a half-hour jaunt up a good-sized hill several kilometers outside of Kedougou:
The brush was thick enough that, although there were others several paces before and behind me, there were moments when I felt alone in my surroundings. The heat pulsated as though the literal breath of God, whispered through the waving life surrounding me. The steepness abated and I turned a corner that stretched open the landscape. Gambia stood somewhere in the distance. There was a woman working her field, the children standing inside the spindly trunk of a nearby tree. I breathed in deeply the sweet scented air, and exhaled a prayer.

Our village stay began on our third day in Kedougou. We were staying in six villages of different ethnic minorities sourrounding the city. I and two of my colleagues were placed with the Peul Bande, members of the populous Fulani people, found in many parts of Africa. I stayed in a thatched-roof hut that normally housed the village cheif, Mamady Diallo. They called me Aminata. The village was called Boundoucoundi, and its people were wonderful. It's bugs were not:
I had chicken pox when I was little, I'm sure of it. I spent a part of my childhood in the forests of Connecticut, crawling with poison ivy. I spent the other part in the mountains of Colorado, in the company of mosquitos and ticks. Whenever I am around cats, my chin gets irritated. All this and yet, searching through all the banks of my accessible memories, it is confirmed that I have never before in my life been this itchy. The itchiness that I am experiencing at this moment is the kind that distracts attention from all else, transcending mild discomfort. Ankles, feet, hands, elbows, legs, back, neck, arms. I would like to cry. I would like even more to scratch. But somehow I retain the knowledge that to scratch as I desire would only result in losing an entire layer of skin. So here I dangle, thinking of nothing but how much I itch, and how unable I am to do anything about it.

When I was little, it was quaint to say, "Don't let the bedbugs bite!" Here, it is wishful thinking.

Here are some thoughts from after my stay:
Today, I returned from a three and a half day stay with the family of the village cheif of Boundoucoundi. My feet are covered all over with insect bites, and with a vague reddish stain on their bottoms from the clay-rich soil. I am struck with an intense emotion I can't quite account for. Nine-year-old Maimouna's smile as the passed between daily chores. Aminata Ba, first wife of the village cheif's oldest son and mother of two, looking simultaneously so old and so young at twenty-two. The cheif's eyes glistening as he played with his infant grandson. When I remember these images I feel the punch of tears forming. Why? They seem so happy, seem to have...enough. I will probably never see them again, but how much of a connection could I really have had with so few words exchanged? A passing visitor in a world so constant, a fleeting presence in a thousand-year-old village. Soon or in another century, the village cheif will pass his legacy on to Souleyman. The next day, the next generation, little Bala will have become an old man, and taken his father's place as village cheif. Maimouna will marry, have children God willing, and continue grinding corn as she does each day. Maybe they will remember me, maybe I will fade. But corn will be harvested, peanuts will be shelled, and babies born, as village life continues.

After a safari-like excursion to the 100-meter waterfall of Dindefello, skirting the Guinean border, we loaded all our stuff back onto the bus for the return trip. The distance we had covered in two days on the way out we ambitiously planned to cover in one day on the way back.
Locusts. Substantial creatures of impressive hopping ability. I examined the one a foot away from my face as I did the authentic-traveller-in-Africa business of the bush bathroom stop. At that moment, I thought of how convenient a thing a tail would be. One with a nice swatch of hair at the end--a weapon, a sheild. That, or a toilet.

A final snapshot from the long ride home:
Hershey-kiss huts again, in their perpetual state of half-meltedness, dotting the landscape. Only now, the thatched roofs no longer represent an impenetrable foreigness of village life. Like the fox's mnemonic wheatfields in St. Exupery's Le Petit Prince, the huts now pull my mind immediately to the sound of Maimouna's voice as she answered her grandmother's summons, or the taste of Souleyman's attaya tea. To bedbugs and cornmeal dinners topped with less-than-appetizing leaf sauce, to tickling small children or clumsily slicing ochra. To my Boundoucoundi.

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!

Where is Libby now?

Libby departed for her 10 or so days out-and-about in Senegal on Saturday. Unless she is blessed with an internet cafe in Saint-Louis, we (myself the fiancé included!) shouldn't expect to hear from her for a while. But I know that if you are here at her blog, you are thinking of and praying for her. If you are at all visual in your prayers, it may help to know where in Senegal these places are that she is visiting. Here are some satellite-screens I captured from GoogleEarth. Click the pictures to see them full size.

In case you weren't sure (it is ok, I was not at first...), here is Dakar in relation to West Africa:


Here are the cities that she is visiting. There is also another village I think, but GoogleEarth did not recognize the name.


And here is a bird's eye view of Saint-Louis. It is the other major city of Senegal, and from the sky looks very pretty with the ocean and beach.



Like she wrote beautifully at the end of her previous post, this trip promises much less of the "Western" comforts afforded in Dakar. I was reading some blogs that Libby pointed me to of people who completed her SIT program in years past, and the stories are pretty amazing and out-there. I join you all in anticipation of how Libby will tell her own stories with her skill at writing.

Also, be in prayer for Ramadan, which started this past weekend. Senegal is a largely Muslim country, and Libby sounded both excited and anxious about experiencing it first hand and up close.

Settling In

Dinner last night? Spaghetti. Yes, a pile of spaghetti, topped with a lamb sauce, was brought out on our communal platter and placed in the middle of five or six of us members of the Samb household. We had been waiting on our dinner mat that had been spread out on the floor like always. The power had gone out in the entire neighborhood (which is called "Zone B") and so we dined, bathed in the sublte hues of a single candle and a hand-cranked flashlight. As we ate, I decided that it is in fact best, in Senegal, for one to eat spaghetti in the dark. That way, one might hide the fact that one has not eaten spaghetti with one's hands in about 18 years, and has successfully gotten it all over oneself.

Even as I continue to run into events and situations like this, I am starting to get the hang of things around here. Although each day hosts a variety of new encounters, a "typical" day in the past week and a half has looked like this:

7:30 AM- Wake up under my mosquito net and remind myself that I am indeed in Africa.
7:45 AM- Gingerly peek around to locate cockroaches before entering bathroom for morning shower.
8:00 AM- Recieve breakfast of powdered milk, sugar cubes and chocolate mixed into a delicious hot cocao, served with half a baguette and garnished with a lively bunch (herd? flock? gaggle?) of flies.
8:15 AM - Meet up with Illana, another SIT student who lives in the house across from me. Together we walk, avoiding random goats and aggressive taxi drivers to "Point E" where the SIT building is located.
8:30ish AM- Classes begin. The schedule changes every day, but the first class of the day might be our French or Wolof language classes, in which we are split into groups of five or so and instructed by local language teachers. Or, SIT staff may present a lecture on our Field Study Seminar or reserve this time for student presentations. We have a break at 10:00 and resume classes at 10:30, in the same vein as above.
12:30 - Dejuener! (Lunch!) SIT students disperse around the neighborhood to feed ourselves and take a break. Lunch is sometimes a large mango and a baguette with nutella, eaten back at SIT. Other times, it is the plat du jour at "La Palace" down the street. Sometimes, it's pizza at the largely westernized "Pizza Inn." Either way, it's usually a welcome time to socialize, run errands or stop by the internet cafes.
2:30 PM - Classes resume. Last week, the afternoon session was held off-site, at a place called Village des Arts. Here, we took introductory lessons in Senegalese dance and djembe drumming! I felt like I had dreamt something up and then stepped right into it as we hammered out the domba, lamba and dembado rhythms in a big circle under the baobab tree. The dancing was wonderful, fun and.....athletic. I think it is safe to assume there were 20 very sore Americans by the end of the week. Even for those of us in relatively decent shape, there are always new muscles to be discovered.
5:00-6:00 PM - This is generally when our day officially ends. A good time to hit the cybercafe, grab a mango from a fruit stand, or visit the other students' houses. Eventually, I make it back to my host family in the evening. There, after taking my afternoon shower (the Senegalese usually shower at least twice a day), I might converse with my uncles on the open-air third story, play with the kids who run around the house all day, or find some homework to do.
9:00-9:30 PM - This is when dinner usually happens. It is actually kind of a non-event in the household, something I had not quite expected. We sit down on the floor mat, eat from a communal platter for a few minutes in relative silence (and sometimes, in relative darkness!), then one by one people get up. They wash their hands and resume whatever they were doing beforehand, and the maids clean up.
11:30 PM - Bed time! I write in my journal a bit, read or study, put up my mosquito net and wonder if the kids outside ever go to bed.

Now that we have settled into our situation a little more (that is to say, the spinning in our heads has slowed to a subtle vertigo), SIT is going to shake things up a bit again. This Saturday, we depart for a week and a half, and will visit the cities of Thies, St. Louis and Touba. In the middle of those travels, we will be living for a few days with a host family in a village called Ker Sadaro. In the philosophy of experiential learning, our SIT professors have not given us much of an idea of what to expect. But upon telling my host family that we're going to the village, more than one have scrunched up their noses and said something along the lines of "Oh, it's not very nice there. They don't have much money. But that is where you will find real Senegalese culture."

Expect some interesting stories in the coming weeks.

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.

Orientation

Greetings from the fiancé! As you might imagine, Libby has limited communication resources. While Suffolk has a computer lab and wireless internet, the lab closes at 1630 and usually her activities keep her out until late in the evening. So in her emails to me (my status has some joyful privileges…) she asked me to update her blog (and joyful responsibilities) on her behalf with some stories. I feel just the smallest bit like an Army spouse, in a way. My fiancée is over in Senegal and I’m left to pass along the good word about how she is doing. She won't be as gone nearly as long, and the roles (who is the one “deployed”) will shift eventually, but that spouse title will come much sooner. So yeah. Anyway, her stories:

…We did a really cool activity today (Sunday) where each of us students were given an object. I had a necklace with a strange round thing on the end; some were given bags of dried leaves, a can, beads, shells, etc. Then, we were sent out onto campus and into the neighborhood to ask people what the objects were for, what their significance was, how they were used and so forth. It was so interesting! We got to practice our French (which I can feel is getting a little better. A little.) and then we reconvened and learned what everyone else's object was. Really cool. I also went on a run this morning before breakfast with two other girls. We received more than a few "what are they doing?" type looks, but oh well! It felt good, and while we couldn't go down to the beach, the ocean was pretty close!

…Last night (Monday), most of us in the group went to a dance performance that was utterly unbelievable. I felt like I had dropped right into something I would have imagined, but never would have expected to experience in reality! We were in a courtyard in a school for the arts, sitting on a ledge watching this amazing group of men and women dancing sabar to a vibrant drum ensemble. You would have loved it! Afterwards, (one of them had met a couple of girls on our trip earlier in the week. They had invited us to the dance performance) they invited us over to have dinner. All 13 of us!! We walked through the streets to an elementary school. This troupe is competing in a national competition, the semifinals are on Saturday. They live together with their troupe in this school in order to prepare and practice day and night for their competition. Intense! We spent the evening listening to a man who didn't speak French, (he was only educated in dancing. He did not know anything else. Another man was translating his Wolof) teaching us songs and telling us about the history of Islam in Senegal. It was surreal.

…Yesterday (Wednesday), we did an activity where they dropped us in the middle of downtown Dakar for the whole afternoon to find out the answers to different questions, get lunch, and buy some stuff. It was exhausting, but really good. Today, we went to Le Village des Arts, where we will be studying visual arts, drumming and dancing. It was pretty cool!!

So hopefully we can all see a glimpse of the fun she is having over there. The last email she said the weather is hot, and the rain is pounding. (verify for yourself with the link to the right…) The flies are numerous but “tolerable.” She is staying healthy, though a few of her classmates are coming down with things, so lets all continue to wash her in prayer. She is slowly adjusting to the culture, and her state of mind sounds like that healthy place between anxiety, excitement, and fatigue. She starts her homestay tonight, and “I'm nervous, but as ready as I'll ever be to dig in ever further to this culture.” She’s staying in a house with 12 Senegalese, but they have experience with this American program, and the mother of the family seems well placed in the Senegalese government, in the Ministry of Industry and Artisans, so Libby is encouraged.

So there you go. The first week. Hopefully we’ll hear more from the source soon. In the mean time I invite you all to continue praying for her. I know she'll appreciate it, and I will too.

~ Mike Demmon, fiancé

Mangi Nii (Here I am)

Wolof Lesson:
Greeting: Salaamalekum! Nanga def? Ana waa ker ga?
Greetings are so important in Senegal that if you neglect greeting the store clerk and asking about her family, she very well might not do anything for you. Luckily, I learned that in our cultural awareness class today, and not at the store.

So, salaamalekum! Nanga def? Ana waa ker ga?

Now, I can tell you that I made it safely to Senegal, at about 0630 local time yesterday morning. African wildlife, women with impossibly large burdens on their head, horse-drawn cart, I have seen it all! (Okay, okay, so a four inch long snail may not really count as wildlife....) Suffolk University, in Boston, has a campus in Dakar which is our home for the first week of orientation. Here, with the Atlantic in view, the 18 of us American students are getting used to everything; each other, the time zone, the food, the language, etc. It is really exciting to finally be here!!! I already feel my rusty French skills being challenged and refined, as well as my digestive skills. Interpret freely.

This message is brought to you by the grace of my friend's laptop, as I have yet to master the internet cafes and French keyboard. Once settled in to my host family (next week), I will be able to have a more regular schedule, I think. Now, some poor Senegalese restaurant will have to figure out what to do with 18 toubabs. Wish me luck ordering!

“Hasn’t She Left Yet??”

Departure is imminent!!! I am preparing to head out of the country this coming Friday, 1 September. I’ve already left my family and friends back in Colorado, however. The past few days I’ve spent driving to Pittsburgh with my fiancé, Mike Demmon, newly-upgraded from boyfriend status! (To see pictures from the proposal at the tiptop of Seattle’s Space Needle three weeks ago, visit here. Yes folks, I’m a blessed lady!) Somehow I’ve survived packing, accepting congratulatory dinner invitations, climbing a couple of peaks with my cousins, dreaming about wedding plans, all the while coping with the fact that I’m going to Africa very soon. And here in Ambridge, PA I rest for a few days, somewhat of a mess, but a happy and excited one.

Here is a little background information for those of you who may be thinking to yourself, “Now why, again, is that Libby character flying off to Senegal?”

The University of Denver has a partnership with an institution in Vermont called the School for International Training (SIT). It is with this institution that I will be studying for the next semester, effectively as a transfer student. The name of the curriculum I will be following is “Senegal: Arts and Culture.” I will join seventeen other students from American schools on this trip, and each of us will stay with different host families in Dakar, the capital of Senegal. I’ll be studying the languages of French and Wolof, attending lectures of the influence of art in the culture of Senegal and West Africa. Following is the field-based portion of the semester, which means I get to go to actual dance lessons, drum lessons, ceramics and batik, and so forth. Field Trip! Then, there is a month-long independent study project.

Senegal is a former French colony in West Africa, independent in 1960. It is bordered to the north by Mauritania, to the east by Mali, to the south by Guinea and Guinea-Bissau, and to the west by the Atlantic. It appears to be eating poor Gambia. It is currently one of the most stable democracies in West Africa, and is a cultural center, scintillating with colorful art and clothing, popular music and soon, my very self. To find out what the CIA has to say about it and impress your friends, click here. To find out what I say about it, with much less hope of impressing your friends, come back to this site.

I know, as I prepare to leave, that there are many of you who are thinking and praying about me. It gives me great confidence to know I have your support. All my thanks!!

And the adventure begins! Or will...in a month...

1 August. In exactly one month from today I will be on an airplane with a group of perfect strangers, flying over the Atlantic Ocean. When I land in exactly one month and one day from today, I will be in a country I’ve never visited, on a continent I’ve never set foot on, with three and half months to spend getting used to it all. How fast can a month go by?

The thoughts and feelings going through my head range from “I wonder how to say ‘stomachache’ in Wolof” to “What do I do with my car while I’m gone?” There just seems to be so much to do in order to prepare myself for this great adventure. I only hope I can remember the important things like addresses to send letters to once I’m in Senegal and, oh yeah, traveler’s checks. But the largest thing on my mind as I prepare myself is exactly how little I can prepare myself indeed. No amount of background reading, travel guides, advice from EVERYONE—solicited or otherwise—will truly do enough to prepare me. As my mom mentioned jus a few days ago, nothing about this trip will be easy. I believe it, and it fills me with excitement! I think about many of my colleagues from DU who chose an “easy” study abroad location, and I wouldn’t take their spots for the world! I look forward to learning not only about Senegal and its people, but about myself as an American, a human and a child of God. I wonder how to say “bring it on” in Wolof... Oh well. They speak French their as well, so: laissez les bons temps rouler!

I hope that as I near my departure and throughout my voyage, I am able to share some of my experiences with all of you readers. I know that some of you are bound by unwritten duty to read whatever I put here, fluff or not. For you and for those willing fans out there, welcome to my travel blog.