Keur - Home

Jeex Na - It's Finished

On my first morning here, a group of us walked along the ocean until we reached the top of a cliff overlooking the two-towered Mosquée de la Divinitée. We stood there, breathing in the heavily exhaust-tainted sea breeze and taking in the view, as if to say, “Hey, Africa, we’re here now. Bring it.” We were naïve, eager, fat, paranoid, pale, sweaty and, on the whole, a little bit awkward.

Today, I found myself one of the last three remaining from the program in Dakar. It’s been seriously painful seeing everyone go and the life I’ve led turning from reality into a memory. During my time here I’ve experienced moments of joy which have left me feeling weightless. I have in fact lost weight, shaved my head and had my skin turn multiple shades darker. There are remnants of scraped away bug bites and pimples all over my face and limbs and I can never seem to adequately clean my feet. I have squeezed my hands into the tightest fists I could in frustration and spread my fingers out as wide as they’d go just to feel the sand fall through them. I’ve never seen so many rainbows in my life or been rained on so hard. I learned to know what time of day it is by what I hear. The prayers, the planes, the roosters, the children, the roman gladiator-esque horn of the garbage trucks and the djembes each represent something. At times, I’ve wanted nothing more than to just leave and then the next day been wholly convinced that I can never leave this place. My body has been run down by sickness, self-induced insomnia and malnutrition to points its never experienced before. I’ve become more fearless, but at the same time developed new fears and insecurities. I’ve voluntarily taken more time to myself to think and just be than I ever have before. And I think that was one of the most valuable things I’ve done here.

People say they come to Africa to find themselves. I never felt particularly lost so that’s not why I came. However, I do think that coming here has shown me a lot about myself, some of which I’m proud of and some of which I’m not. I honestly didn’t expect to feel so different about myself nor so attached to this place.

“We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all of our exploring will be to arrive where we started, and know the place for the first time. And all shall be well…”
- T.S. Eliot

Ba beneen yoon, Sénégal, Inshallah.

Jërëjëf, Merci, Thank you.

For images from Tabaski, my Birthday Party on Île Ngor and Farewells, follow these links:
Birthdays and Goats WARNING: VERY GRAPHIC IMAGES OF SLAUGHTERED GOATS. NOT SUITABLE FOR YOUNG CHILDREN OR VEGETARIANS.
Farewells

Juroom Ñeent - Nine

In Africa there are fifty-four countries, dozens of languages spoken, hundreds of millions of people living without electricity, a handful of dictators, thirteen net oil exporters and one nation hosting the world cup in 2010. It is a continent where one can see the juxtaposition of the absolute extremes of poverty standing just out of frame of the picture of paradise. It is where I’ve lived and learned for the past four months. It is a place where we Americans aspire to come to experience, well, ‘Africa’.

On Friday, a group of friends and I packed up our bags yet again to leave Dakar for the weekend. This time our destination was Lampoul in northern Senegal, a small desert in the middle of an oasis. We arrived late in the afternoon, missing the worst of the desert heat and put our packs inside the white Mauritanian style tents set on the edge of the desert. In front of us were gigantic sand dunes, blown smooth by the wind, dipping and rising over one another. Effectively, we stood at the edge of our own gigantic sandbox. Immediately reverting to our elementary school selves, we sprinted up the face of the dunes, log-rolled back down them, threw ourselves off the apexes, made shapes with our fingers in the sand and watched as the sand melted off the peaks, wicked away by the wind. All the while my finger kept clicking on my camera’s shutter, capitalizing on the opportunity to be in what felt like untouched nature. But what was odd about this experience was how unbelievably unnatural it actually was. After spending the night making s’mores with French butter cookies under the stars in the middle of the desert, the following morning we walked straight from one end of the desert to the other and at the peak of the highest dune, one could plainly see that the desert was suspiciously rectangular shaped, lined on all sides by rows of trees and brush. The night before, it felt like I could’ve trekked across the desert for days but then the next morning, l was surprised that ‘salvation’ was right over the next dune. Although I don’t think it took away from the experience itself, as I photographed I felt like the director of ‘Titanic’ must have felt filming inside an enormous wave pool. While if I cropped the trees in the background out of my frame, it gave the illusion of a never-ending desert, I knew in my head that it wasn’t the reality of it.








This same scenario has played itself out time and time again while here. When my friends and I visited the Reserve de Bandia, I stood ten feet away from a rhinoceros and saw gazelles leap across the hood of our 4x4. However, barely any of the animals at the reserve were native to Senegal. I might as well have been driving around Disney’s Animal Kingdom. In spite of the artificiality of it, it felt very ‘African’, which is to say what you expect Africa to feel like, at least from a tourist approach. As I’ve spoken to friends back home and thought about my experiences here, I’ve realized that there is definitely a notion among Americans that one doesn’t go to Senegal, Kenya, Ghana or Ethiopia, one goes to Africa. Inevitably, someone will ask me “how was Africa?” when I get home, and I’m not sure how I’ll answer. In spite of the fact that that this continent is larger than the United States, Europe, India and China combined, there is a preconceived stereotypical African experience. Beyond these clichéd ‘African’ experiences, I have learned so much more from T.I.A. (This is Africa) moments.

If we’re going to generalize, what’s happened here has changed my view of Africa. Mainly, I’ve become severely more pessimistic on a number of different levels having to do with the future of the continent and its poeople.

Although I’ve been taking a course on economic development while here and have been studying it since senior year of high school, I learned the most about it outside of the classroom in Senegal. When I traveled to India in the summer of 2006, I saw serious levels of poverty. But in three weeks there and as a tourist it never really became tangible nor did I get to know those who live in a state of poverty or the realities of it, but instead lived in a bubble of hospitality provided courtesy of the generous Ramaswami family. Instead, when living in Senegal, there is no escaping the poverty which affects the lives of so many here even though I live in a three-story home with a wealthy well-educated family.

For the past four months, each day I have been confronted by and reminded of it in the endless numbers of children begging in tattered clothing who would ask me for money, food or whatever I happened to have in my hand at the moment and the number of people who come to Dakar, who upon first impression I believed to be poor without knowing how much worse it could get, for the work opportunities unavailable elsewhere in other parts of the country or even from other nations in worse situations. On my rural visit in Salamata, I saw illiterate adults and their young children rapidly heading down the same path as their parents as education became a time for them to be beaten, instead of helped. I saw for the first time what poverty can do to a people and their outlook on life and how unbelievably inefficient, and sometimes inappropriate, the process of furthering economic development can be.

The people who lived in Salamata, albeit unable to afford basic needs, seemed content with the simplicity of their lifestyle. However, in spite of this, there was a strong feeling that these people needed our help. That we could teach the children the tenses of ‘être’ and ‘avoir’, bring solar panels to the village, bring in an NGO to build a school. But then again, all those things were actually already there. Everyone (read: NGO’s and foreign governments) was there lending a helping hand, yet in spite of the collective efforts which may help in small steps, on a broader spectrum from what I have seen I believe they have failed.

Then again, who says that development in this direction is what’s right for these people. Maybe they’ll be happier without all the materialism and goal-oriented mindset of the western idea of a developed nation. Maybe they’re better off making pot after pot of over sugared tea. Even if it may not be the right definition of development, it became evident to me that whether or not they wanted to accept it, it’s imposed on them. This doesn’t necessarily occur through NGO’s or the Peace Corps entering and building up an infrastructure to encourage development, but rather through the spread of media.

In the computer labs at Suffolk, I have never seen so many people watching music videos on YouTube. The only clothes you can buy in the markets are either poorly done knock offs of glittery luxury labels or things that got passed on from the Salvation Army. Inevitably, this is going to lead to the younger generations aspiring to western ideals and then maybe development in the traditional sense is what’s actually best.

To see more of my photos from Lampoul, follow the links below:
A Giant Sandbox of Emotion: Evening
A Giant Sandbox of Emotion: Morning

Tana Alla - No problems (Pulaar)

Lying diagonally with my feet off the edge of the bed and wishing I hadn’t eaten all those things I had the day before, the room span a bit and my head throbbed. I dreaded having to use the toilet again. I say this because the ‘toilet’ was a hole in the ground approximately the size of a ripe grapefruit, not to mention home to a seriously disturbing number of cockroaches and flies. From outside the hut, I heard the very deep voice of a man speaking English with a heavy British accent and some Franco-African trills at the ends of his words. Considering barely anyone spoke Wolof, let alone French in Salamata, this man who somehow spoke English intrigued me. I gathered enough will power to get myself upright and out of the low doorway of the hut. Taller than me, he stood next to his motorcycle, towering over the young boys of the compound playing soccer and the women and girls sifting through beans and roasted peanuts on the ground. He was speaking about the elections with our peace corps volunteer, seeming to be very much enjoying the opportunity to speak English. I joined in on the conversation and found out he was a representative of World Vision, an NGO that arranges for people in developed countries to sponsor children living in poverty. Not knowing how to use his digital camera, he asked me to take pictures of the children to be e-mailed to their British sponsor families. Having been with the children for nearly a week already and taken pictures of them, they cooperated with my hand motions and nods. With them properly positioned in the sunlight, I took their pictures. The man from World Vision was incredibly pleased with how simple it had been and how the pictures turned out while the kids were happy to find out what they looked like. I’m pretty sure most of the young children have never seen a mirror before. Soon thereafter, the man had gotten what he needed, put on his helmet, kicked his bike to a start and sped off, blowing up sand into the air in his wake.

The boys went back to playing soccer while the girls took their places on the ground again. The eldest took the one plastic chair being supported on its front two legs by pieces of wood as another girl sat in front of her so she could finish having her hair braided. I went back into the hut to lie down again and wait for our lunch of couscous with leaf sauce, a sauce of *drumroll* boiled leaves.

It was bizarre to find myself on the other end of all the canned food drives of junior school (the name for elementary school at UNIS), to find myself in one of those commercials asking you, yes, you to give a child a chance, to find myself with these people who before this had just been something I’d read about in newspapers or seen on television. While they lacked many things, they seemed genuinely happy. Having cup after cup of tea with friends and greeting everyone for at least a minute was enough. In America, we are very much defined by what we do. After your name, the inevitable next question is “What do you do?” (Or, if in college, “What’s your major?”) For them, it wasn’t just about doing. It seemed to be the opposite in Salamata where they found satisfaction in the company of others and producing for themselves simply what they needed to get by. A way of life definitely not for me, but for a week it was a very welcome break.

After a fourteen-hour car ride from Dakar through dust clouds and past fields of burning trash then tall baobabs then salt flats, we arrived in Kolda. At the peace corps house, having only gotten a few 20-minute periods of beyond bumpy sleep on the ride down after having been out dancing the night before just up until getting into the car to leave, I passed out early. The next morning, we tried to leave before the sun got too high, strapping our packs onto the backs of our bikes (which were actually rather nice, although very beat up, Trek bikes courtesy of the US Peace Corps) and riding out the 20 kilometers to Salamata in a group of three along paved roads. It felt great to be back on a bike and a little bit surreal riding alongside cotton fields and old Pulaar men. As we got further and further from Kolda, the calls from the children on the side of the road changed from “toubab toubab” to “toubako toubako”. You can guess what toubako means. At the village, we were greeted at our compound by our host family for the week and had missed greeting the chief as he was out working in the fields. Instead of taking lunch there, we hopped back on our bikes at the peak of the midday heat and made our way out further towards a weekly market. Not realizing what the heat could do, the additional fifteen kilometers out to the market was rough, but the countryside was beautiful and I managed to stretch what I had left in my water bottle to get me through it. Once we hit the market, the first matter of business was lunch. Between the three of us, we ate the last of a woman’s bean sandwiches for approximately seventy cents, my first experience with tapalapa, the hand-made baguette style bread of the region which was incredible. Making our way through the market and in desperate need of some relief from the dehydration and heat, our peace corps volunteer, Danny, insisted that we try the glaçes. Coming in bissap and baobab flavor, these miniature frozen juice bags looked a little bit dubious—but incredibly delicious. Throwing caution to the wind after having already biked nearly forty kilometers on the day in the African heat, I figured one small bag of frozen bissap juice (which is boiled in its preparation) couldn’t do too much damage. Alxamdoulilaah, it was incredible. Biting into the bottom left corner of the plastic bag with my teeth, it was everything I wanted at that exact moment. And then I wanted more. And this is where I think I got sick. A bag of donuts, 4 bissap bags and 1 baobab bag later, I was satisfied and we took a seat a little bit away from the market in the shade. Just as the sun began to set we rode back to Salamata, bringing up the total amount biked in our first day to about 50 kilometers or a little over 30 miles.

That night I shared a bed with the other American student, an upgrade from what I had imagined myself doing. It turns out that there wasn’t much for us to really doing the day since our peace corps volunteer, albeit an agriculture volunteer, was not in fact a farmer. His responsibility was not to go out in the fields and do the same work as the rest of the farmers but rather to change the way that they farmed to make it self-sustainable and efficient. This led to a lot of free time.

While it had gotten cool in Dakar, in the Kolda region, it was still frustrating hot and humid during the day. As a result, during the day, we stuck around the compound sorting through beans to be eaten and to be replanted, drinking tea with the men and picking up a few phrases in pulaar. One afternoon, I went out by myself into the fields to read the copy of “Prague” I’d taken from the peace corps house and to photograph. Armed with only my camera, “Prague” and my cell phone, I found a nice spot just on the edge of a millet field and looking out into a squash field. Et à ma grande surprise, c’était calme. Also to my surprise was that in the middle of a squash field and within view of the forest from where I could hear the calls of the monkeys and baboons, I had full service. In a village where they had neither running water nor electricity, they had not one but two cell phone towers. Development can be somewhat top-heavy, with this example being especially bizarre, since if someone had a cell phone it was mainly as a status symbol as they couldn’t afford to put credit on it. But I was glad to be able to stay in touch with my friends from the program when I felt so far away from everything.

Coming back to Dakar felt incredible. While I loved my time in Salamata, it was a serious relief to come back to civilization, a term I’ve learned is very much relative. Dinner that first night back was the first time since the first few weeks of ceebu jen at the beginning of the program that I’d enjoyed rice which had been considered a luxury in Salamata. I was particularly happy to have a bathroom again, even though there might not be a toilet seat and water all over the place, it was still better than using a hole in the ground. But mainly, I was happy to be back in a place that’s started to feel like home.

To see more pictures from my time in Salamata, please follow these links:
Rural Visits 1
Rural Visits 2

Sunu - Our

I don’t cry.

I’ve lived an incredibly gifted life during which I’ve avoided many of the worst situations that would bring me to tears but at a little before five in the morning on November 5th, 2008, sitting on a broken cot in the Peace Corps house in Kolda, Senegal, I finally cried. No one in the room seemed to notice as everyone was watching Obama speak to millions on the laptop which we had streaming CNN.com live.

It felt odd. Especially since I wasn’t sad.

While I know crying on this past election night was an experience shared by many, people did so for different reasons. I thought of Gladys, Randy’s grandmother who passed away earlier this year at the age of 102. An African-American woman who grew up in Harlem and lived through so many different periods of American history. It’s too bad she couldn’t live to see it through to Obama’s election.

I thought of when we found out Bush was reelected in biology class and Kirini, Nicolette and Libby immediately walked out of the classroom in tears.

This time it was different.

I was honestly proud to be an American. I no longer felt like I had to admit to being American. It felt like we, as a people, had accomplished something—a victory recognized and celebrated by the world. Besides a few periods of the Clinton administration, during my politically-conscious lifetime, I’ve felt that America has done significantly more bad than good. As a result, and particularly as of late, we’ve paid for it with our reputation, something felt particularly hard when abroad.

In Senegal, ever since I’ve arrived here the one positive thing people have without fail said about Americans is “Obama!”, usually accompanied by a thumbs up. It’s pretty safe to say that Obama would have gotten Senegal’s vote. On the day before leaving for my rural visits, while in downtown Dakar, a parade of car rapides, trucks, cars and buses drove by with pictures of and signs for Obama, people cheering and drums playing. While in Salamata, a village of only a few hundred outside of Kolda without access to television, the internet or newspapers, they referred to him as “Notre président” (Our President), cheering that the Maison Blanche (White House) had now become the Maison Noire (Black House).

With the election of President Obama, it really does give me some hope for the US. I may be naïve in thinking that not all politicians are the same and that Obama will do something different than what we’ve had in the past, but I’m excited by the premise of a future with the rest of the world behind us.

Gerte - Peanuts

An idea borrowed from a friend and reminiscent of early Firetrky (my first blog)—a list.

You know you’ve been in Senegal for a long time when:

1. You feel no guilt in throwing your trash on the ground or out of the window of a moving car
2. Bugs in your meal simply means more protein
3. You’ve seen an animal grow up, then have eaten said animal
4. You can vaguely find your way around downtown Dakar
5. You realize that it can actually be cold here
6. You no longer find breasts sexually attractive
7. You add “inshallah” or “alxamdulilaay” onto the ends of your sentences
8. You felt guilty about eating in public and now cherish feeling no guilt at all, but remain conscious of the action
9. Your natural response to a yes or no question is “Waaw” or “Deedeet”
10. Chocolate on bread is no longer a weird concept, but rather a delicious and easy-on-the-wallet snack
11. The ideas of personal space and hygiene no longer exist
12. Anything done with your left hand feels inherently dirty
13. You’ve tried all the Biskrem varieties (Original, Versem, and Dark)
14. Wolof miraculously begins to make sense
15. Gin is your liquor of choice
16. Women with makeup look bizarre
17. You’ve mastered the Senegalese hiss
18. You no longer call, but only send text messages
19. Hand sanitizer and malaria prophylaxis become a part of your daily routine
21. Uploading photos to Facebook is the bane of your existence
22. Dakar feels luxurious
23. You take Car Rapides or Ndiaga Ndiayes on your own
23a. You learn how to spell and pronounce Ndiaga Ndiaye
24. You manage not to burn your tongue while drinking ataaya (Senegalese tea)
25. Anything above 2000 CFA ($4.00) for a cab ride is an absolutely ludicrous concept
26. You learn the words and beats to the songs played in the clubs
27. You’ve done the row-tak dance
28. You’ve devoured a plate of otherwise less-than-spectacular food and not cared because it hit the spot like nothing else
29. You stop going to Le Mex and Just 4 U
30. You realize that you’ve done most of the things in the guidebook
31. You forget what your face used to feel like
32. You forget what you used to look like (see ‘Africa cut’)
33. You’ve decided you’re either a Flag drinker or a Gazelle drinker
34. You walk through your neighborhood and know the people you speak with
35. You understand that civilization is relative
36. You look forward to the next ‘promotion’ day
37. You’re as close with your Senegalese friends as you are with your American friends
38. You have a very complicated relationship with rice
39. You can almost dance like a Senegalese person
40. You can’t name a single movie in theaters in the US
41. You would do some very bad things for certain American food items
42. You learn to live without electricity
43. Bananas become a staple of your diet
44. The word ‘toilet’ takes on a very loose definition
45. 5 AM is early to be going to bed on a weekend
46. Going out on a weekend begins outside of a gas station and ends with mac n’ cheese with eggs and ketchup
47. You expect to have to bargain for everything
48. You judge what time of day it is by the prayers
49. It’s the small victories that matter most
50. You can make a list of 50 things that you know when you’ve done them that you’ve been in Senegal for a long time

Julli - Pray

In the past week, I’ve stood ten feet from a rhinoceros as it stared at me through the brush, eaten an Ethiopian feast with my hands while seated on the floor cushions underneath the night sky and shaved my head, getting what could be called the ‘Africa Cut’. To say the least, I very much feel like I’m in Africa. Or at least how I thought it was supposed to feel before actually coming.

This upcoming week, I stand to get up to my neck in it. Tomorrow morning at 5 AM I leave for my rural visit in Salamata, a small village outside of Kolda, the second largest city in the Casamance region in southern Senegal and the former capital of the Fula kingdom. In my guidebook, Kolda is only mentioned briefly on the very last page, almost as a footnote, saying “Kolda’s glory lies all in its past”. I can’t seem to find Salamata on any maps, though I’m not exactly surprised. Evidently, it’s somewhere just north of the Guinea Bissau-Senegal border. While there I will be helping with the November harvest as well as building a fence and well. I’ve been told to bring food because there isn’t always much available.

I plan on packing light. Maybe an extra pair of shorts and a few t-shirts. Enough underwear for a week. Tevas. Malaria medicine. And lots of bug spray. Oh, and the bag of gummy bears I still have left from when my parents were here. I say this because the journey there sounds like it will be one of my greater adventures. With only the money, instruction and contact information given to me by my program, I, along with a few other students, are expected to go to the Gare Routiere, Dakar’s taxi depot, negotiate for a sept-place (a seven-passenger station wagon taxi, usually of questionable durability and containing upwards of seven passengers) to take us to Gambia. Then once in Gambia to take a ferry across the country, at which point we need to find another sept-place to take us to Kolda where we will spend the night. The next morning, we will rent bicycles to bike to our respective villages. And I’m sure these bikes won’t be Treks. Total, I’m estimating upwards of 24 hours of travel. Without air-conditioning. Overcrowded to the point of extreme claustrophobia. Not knowing where I’m going. And I couldn’t be more excited for the journey.

Frustratingly though, I’ll be in Salamata during the elections where I won’t have electricity. Luckily, Danny, the Peace Corps volunteer I’ll be staying with has a short wave radio. As I sit around the radio, listening to the BBC commentary, the future of America will be decided without me. If there is an Obama win, I hereby vow to do a celebration dance outside of my hut in Salamata.

With that in mind, on November 4th, vote Obama.

And for pictures of my past couple weekends, follow these links:

Île Ngor Fanaan + Réserve de Bandia
Popenguine

Boo.

Happy Halloween, hope I didn't scare you too much.

Top Picture: My new haircut and Jack's molestache.
Bottom: Buzzcut.

Nijitsu - Director

With only a week left until the 2008 Presidential Elections, they’ve been on my mind a lot lately. As a liberal youth, my vote went straight to Barack Obama, the young black political phenom from Chicago. Throughout the electoral campaign, people have criticized Obama for being emotionally inaccessible to the ‘Joe Six Packs’ of America. Instead, these people believe that a presidential candidate should be someone who you’d like to sit down with and have a couple of beers with on your porch or someone who you’d be comfortable inviting over for family dinner. Disturbingly, many Americans probably have never had a black person over for dinner. It is not necessarily racism, but a harsh cultural divide between differing ethnicities in our country.

Sitting in the courtyard at my Senegalese friend Vince’s house, drinking tea and speaking in both French and Wolof, I was completely comfortable and relaxed. I drank my shot-glass sized cup of tea quickly in short sips, slurping each time as I had been taught during orientation and burning my tongue in the process. I looked around me and it was just me and maybe nine other guys—all of whom were black. I quickly came to realize that had I been in a similar situation—at least on the surface—in the United States, I would have felt very different.

I honestly can’t think of a time in the US when it was just me and a group of black people except for maybe some time spent with Randy’s family and his family friends. To be among a group of young black guys who read copies of Vibe magazine imported from the US and love basketball and hip-hop and to have nothing in between us is something I’ve never experienced in the past. These guys are my best guy friends here and without forcing anything, we get along really well. In the United States, where blacks are the minority, a situation where I’d be with only black people is much more unlikely due to sheer numbers, but also I just don’t think I’d naturally find myself in such a situation.

I’m not sure if I will have more black friends when I get back to the US, but it’s made the cultural divide in my life between blacks and whites much more evident.

Waxabaane - Young Man

My dad grew up in Brooklyn. He lived on the same block as Woody Allen. Now, could you imagine Woody Allen in Senegal? Sounds like it might make an entertaining film, but nothing short of a disaster beyond that. Growing up, my dad’s concept of nature went about as far as a crab on the beach at Coney Island and maybe the occasional trip upstate. Then all of a sudden, he found himself here. With this in mind, my mother made sure to make their stay as comfortable as possible. Or at least at first. She had us booked into the nicest suite at the most expensive hotel in Senegal, Le Meridien Président. Complete with a 13,000 CFA (approximately $27) breakfast buffet, an enormous swimming pool but no vacant beach chairs around it, and a bar with a Senegalese band awkwardly running through jazz standards, the hotel appeared to be like much of Senegal—expensive and crowded. However, my mom had done a great job in choosing our room. The suite was heavily air conditioned, modern in its design, had two flat-panel HDTV’s, two bathrooms which both had hot water (an extreme rarity in Senegal), a luxurious living room and a dining table which could easily have doubled as a conference room.

When I arrived at the hotel room, I sat down at the foot of my parents’ bed. Looking around me, out of the blue I started laughing to myself. The contrast from where I had been to where I was felt like I had been stranded in the ocean and then landed upon an island paradise. I took a hot shower, feeling the grime leave my skin and the pollution disappear from my lungs as I inhaled then exhaled the steam. I stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a clean white towel, anticipating it to get even hotter, but was greeted instead by cold air. I felt eerily clean.


I was already happy with the air-conditioning. The American television—ecstatic. A hot shower—unbelievable. But then…Jan Kay cookies? Really? I’ve honestly never enjoyed a cookie so much in my entire life. Something so simple, but so very very great. I’d like to send out an enormous thank you to Jan for making the cookies, but more for providing me the strength to continue eating fish and oily rice for the next two months. They truly hit the spot like nothing else and I still haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to share the three remaining cookies because I want them too much for myself. (Not completely true, I’m going to share them as these kids have been as deprived as me, but it’ll be difficult to part with them to say the least) It didn’t even end there. Of course, in the little time that my parents had before leaving, they managed to put together a care package—rather, a suitcase—of which the likes have never seen before. In addition to the Jan Kay cookies, imported from New York were goldfish, gummy bears, jellybeans, Gatorade powder, chewy granola bars, honey mustard & onion pretzels, milanos, oatmeal raisin cookies, fruit leather and more. For those of you who have watched Home Alone 2: Lost in New York when Macaughly Culkin has a suitcase filled with cookies and candy from the hotel, it was like that. Only much better. And without Joe Pesci.

We wound up staying in and around the hotel for the first day, giving them some time to adjust to the climate and time difference and me the chance to indulge in the luxury of it all. This involved having a piña colada and greek salad by the ocean, a nap on the couch wrapped in pillows, floating around in the absurdly warm swimming pool and a family-style dinner at a Moroccan restaurant. On their second day in Dakar, I was hesitant to take my parents to around the city. It is definitely not a pleasant place to be a tourist and can be very overwhelming. We went to Marché HLM, a market known for its incredible fabrics and its talented pickpockets. I walked behind as we made our way through the market, taking them through the areas I’d been through and telling off any salesmen who approached. My father bought a couple pieces of fabric to be used as backgrounds in paintings and it was pretty quickly time to leave. Taking a cab through downtown Dakar on the way to lunch at L’Institut Français was enough for my parents to get a better understanding my life here but also to have had enough of Dakar. After a nice lunch, we retreated to the hotel, spending the rest of the day by the pool and having dinner at a fantastic Thai restaurant nearby. (Interesting side bit, the Senegalese soccer team was staying on our floor. I didn’t know who any of them were but evidently they’re a big deal as you’ll find out in another post about the game I went to)


The next morning, we left for our second destination, Le Lodge Les Collines de Niassam, a small eco-lodge run by a French couple in the Sine-Saloum Delta. The ride there was slow. As we got further out from Dakar the roads deteriorated. Driving on the dirt roads with enormous potholes and mudpits, our driver weaved his way through them as best he could, making the ride feel like going through moguls and gave new meaning to car sickness. However, as the roads got worse, our surroundings became more beautiful. Massive baobabs popped up on both sides of the road, with their branches twisting in different directions and looking unbelievably grand. Out of my window, I struggled to take pictures of the birds flying by. We arrived at the lodge in the early evening. It was absolutely beautiful with treehouses built into the baobabs, a picturesque pool and houses built on stilts overlooking the river delta.

Our first night there was actually rather miserable. My parents hadn’t gotten acclimated to the hot weather (made infinitely worse by the fact that we were essentially sleeping outside with only one fan for the hut) and the mosquito nets provided, albeit aesthetically pleasing, were not all that effective. After a rough night, in the morning, breakfast was brought out to our hut. With a refreshing breeze after a night spent sweating underneath a mosquito net, even though the meal was only tea, orange juice and bread with jam & butter, it was one of the most pleasant breakfasts I’ve ever had. Early in the morning is when all the birds are out on the delta. Perfectly quiet, except for the laughing sound the birds made. The dogs came to keep us company. Tranquil, as the Senegalese would say.


Normally on our family vacations, I’ve detested the absolute isolation my mother always seems to seek out in choosing our destination. But after my time spent in Dakar, it was incredibly nice to just get away from all of it. We honestly didn’t really do much while we were there. We had our happy hour drinks at sunset, a bottle of wine with dinner and a taste of apple brandy or their home-made flavored rums for dessert. As we were the only ones at the hotel at the time, we got to spend a good amount of time with the owner, a quirky French man with a white beard and who always wore his white linen shirts open-chested. He smoked more than enough cigarettes and had his caipirinha at the same time at the same picnic table set out in the river each day. The man knew how to live well. He and my dad shared their tastes in music and my mom practiced her French a bit. We ate well, slept well our third night and simply relaxed. On our last full day there, we rented a pirogue to take us around delta. Surrounded by mangroves it felt a bit like Florida. But then you’d see a woman with her newborn resting on the curve of her back as she bent down to harvest oysters from the ground and you remembered you were still in Africa. Our guide prepared a lunch of Yassa Poisson, fresh fish with an onion sauce, which we ate under the shade of a tree on an island among the mangroves.


Our guide thought my dad looked like John McCain, and he had a point (my mom and I had actually been saying the same thing for a while.) My dad had been sweating non-stop since arriving in Senegal. He must have hit his head about fifteen times. The one handkerchief he brought was perpetually damp with sweat. On his side, back, arms and legs were bright red bug bites (still not sure if they were bed bugs, mosquitoes or spiders who had bit him) that were more painful than itchy. But he made it all the way to the end and with only a manageable amount of complaining and arguing that my mother was trying to kill him with all these vacations.

When my parents left, I was sad to see them go. It didn’t feel like saying goodbye to them at Middlebury, nor from home. I truly wish I had gotten to show them more because even though as a tourist there is not that much to see here, there is so much more that goes on, so much more that I’ve seen and done than I can photograph or write about. You just need to be here to simply live in it for a while.

For more photos from my break, please follow these links.
Vacation with Rents I
Vacation with the Rents II
Vacation with the Rents III

Bët - Eyes

It’s simple. They come up to you, start talking with you, attempt to distract you, then reach for your wallet while you’re not looking. Tonight, a man tried to do that to me as I walked with my parents down an unlit street in downtown Dakar. At first he came up to us, trying to sell us something. I stepped in between him and my parents, telling him off politely in Wolof. It worked, he drifted off behind us for a while but then reappeared as we crossed through the market area which had closed down for the day on the way to dinner. He was explaining to me that you could buy anything here, and that if I wanted some new shorts—which he said as he pulled slightly on the pocket of my shorts, pretending as if I didn’t understand the word in French, and slipped his hand into my left pocket—he could help me.

At first I didn’t realize what was happening. I’ve gotten so accustomed to people walking alongside me, trying to sell me something or asking for something else, that the only part that alarmed me was that he had touched me. I instantly grabbed his wrist tightly, pulling it out of my pocket after feeling him sift through the keys and ferry time schedule that were in there. I still didn’t completely know what was going on but let go of his hand once I made him show me there was nothing in it and I had checked to see if everything was still there. I only really figured out he had been attempting to mug me by how quickly he disappeared into the shadows after I let his hand go.

Without question, my confidence has been shaken. After almost two months here, I’ve finally begun to feel like a part of the Senegalese community. Albeit as an outsider, but accepted nonetheless. When I speak in Wolof, it always makes people smile as they’re delighted that a ‘toubab’ has taken to learn their language instead them learning the language of the people who colonized their nation centuries ago. When I walk around my neighborhood, the children ask me how I am. On my way home, I sit down underneath the tree to simply talk with my Senegalese friends. While I don’t think that the attempted mugging is going to change my perspective of the Senegalese, it has made me appreciate my neighborhood and how I’ve become a part of the community.

Foo dëkk? - Where do you live?

My room smells funky. In fact, I’m pretty sure I smell funky. After having electricity for all of Korité (which was a big deal to have electricity for a whole day), we have not had any for the past two days. My bed is stained with sweat in the shape of my body. It sort of looks like a crime scene.

Since arriving here, I’ve wondered whether or not I could ever actually live here for an extended period of time. The answer is resoundingly no. While you may think it might be the lack of infrastructure and luxuries, imbalanced diet, incessant humid heat, decrepit transportation system, overwhelming amounts of pollution, segregation of the ex-pat community or the Muslim-dominated society, all those really are manageable and are more than made up for by the beauty of the country, culture and people. Rather, what I’ve realized over time is that no matter how long I live here, no matter how good my Wolof gets, no matter how well I learn to dance to Senegalese music, no matter how I dress, no matter how tan I get, I will always be treated as a stranger.

Would I ever really feel at home? I don’t think so.

Nyool ak Weeh - Black and white

Since arriving here, there's been a sense of it being 'us and them'. Which is to say that as a result of Ramadan, when going around during the afternoon to a bakery or a restaurant, no one besides maybe a handful of french ex-pats and us would be there. This was felt even more so when going out at night to a bar, night club, jazz club or buying beer. You felt guilty and exposed while drinking or going out. All of that changed last night.

Places which had been all but left for dead were completely revived past their capacities. Caesar's, a quasi-fast-food restaurant nearby, had hundreds of Senegalese teenagers still dressed in their brightly colored boubous and dresses standing outside. Most seemed drunk, telling by the number of beer cans and whiskey bottles on the ground. At the store where we had been the only ones buying beer from for quite a while, the Senegalese pushed and shoved their way up to the register to buy their whiskey and cokes. It was very bizarre. All this time I'd had an impression of the Senegalese as reserved and those who simply like to let the time pass while drinking tea. Now, as it turns out, that's not quite correct. Drunk men barked in wolof at each other as a group of curious onlookers formed around them. The taxis were lined up around the block, honking and calling out for passengers. A number of people were pushing their cars down the street (supposedly because no one in Senegal ever checks how much fuel they have and everyone decided to drive that night) and both pedestrians and taxis made their way around where a car had hit a motorcycle. Both of the drivers were probably drunk.

What difference a day makes.

Wax - A thick pooridge dish served with yogurt sauce

It's the end of Ramadan, a day known as Eid in the rest of the world but as Korité in Senegal. The chants coming from the Mosque today seem louder and more joyous. It is forbidden or impolite to talk about any difficulty you might be having with fasting during Ramadan. In spite of the responses of "ça va bien" (I'm fine), as the month went on people got tired. As the majority of my time spent in Senegal has been during Ramadan, I'm very curious to see how life changes after Koritè. Even last night while walking around, I could immediately see things changing. This morning my family donned their new boubous, custom tailored from fine fabrics in rich colors, in celebration of the day. Sort of like christmas sweaters but a lot nicer. I want one. Enter the second chapter of my time in Senegal.

Xef - Eyelash

I got home from school, slipped off my flip-flops at the entrance and bounded up the stairs, greeting my family members along the way. In my room, I refilled my water bottle, rubbed some hand santizer through my hands and dropped off my backpack then headed back out. As I was running down the stairs to head out for the night, my host brother looked up at me from his soccer game on the playstation and was confused as to why I was going out again. I said back to him: Il faut profiter. (One must take advantage). He chuckled and said: Waaw, ba ci kanam. (Yea, see you later).

Since arriving in Senegal, I’ve been constantly exploring. If something doesn’t work, it’s just another adventure. If it does work out, I usually stumble upon something spectacular. On weekends, I leave Dakar. It’s a necessary break from a lifestyle that isn’t always the most relaxing (but sometimes really is). Three weekends ago was Saly, a very touristy beach town, with the Young Christians of Mermoz. Two weekends ago was Toubab Dialao, a small artisan village overlooking a nice beach, with the entire CIEE group. This weekend was Lac Rose. Not too far outside Dakar, Lac Rose is one of the biggest tourist destinations in Senegal. It’s famous for being the end of the Paris-Dakar rally, but also for its name. At certain times of day, the lake water turns pink.

When we got out there, we were nearly the only tourists. Even before we stepped out of the taxi, there were a number of people clamoring to have us buy their jewelry or use their guide services. We eventually escaped the worst of it and made our way around the lake, walking among huge salt mounds. The lake was more of a brownish color but the stillness of the water, pirogues covered inside-and-out with salt and large white mounds of their haul made for an interesting view. We hired a boat to take us around the lake, with the salt from the water stinging our mosquito bites we’d scratched too much. The wind picked up and the sun came through and the water began to take on a pinkish hue, but it really wasn’t as pink as the poorly photoshopped postcards make it seem.




After making our way back to the shore, we started the walk to the beach. We walked over large sanddunes and past camels. The beach itself stretched on for miles. And we were the only people there. The satisfaction of being able to look one way and see nothing but ocean, sand and forest, then to look the other way and see the same thing was incredibly gratifying. We arrived a little bit before sunset and spent the rest of the evening relaxing. I think I even did yoga for the first time and it felt really good.



All the buzz of Dakar felt so far away. The air was clean, no vendors were hissing at us for our attention, no beggars saying ‘Toubab, xaalis.’ (White person, money). As it got dark we headed back to the hotel and spent the night drinking gin and Africa fun (orange soda) on the beach. I haven’t ever seen the milky way like I did that night. The next morning we woke up early. Two people had been eaten alive by bed bugs and another by mosquitoes. We packed our things and headed towards the main road where the bus going back into Dakar stopped.

It was one of the more miserably hot days we’ve had in a while. Waiting for the bus, we were all dripping sweat. Once the bus did come, things got worse. The ride out had been pleasant. At the time we couldn’t believe it was only 200 francs. The way back, we found out why. After two days in a row that it rained (really heavily for about 45 minutes each day), many of the roads had flooded. The car rapides, buses and taxis stopped moving, but more people kept cramming on to the bus. Unable to find a seat, I stood pressed against the window with my neck bent to the side as I couldn’t stand fully upright. Normally, there would be some air passing through the windows but since traffic wasn’t moving the air was stagnant. It smelled like sweat and at times was suffocating. My claustrophobia didn’t help, but there wasn’t much I could do. I positioned myself as best I could and dealt with it. After about 40 minutes of standstill we made it through the worst of the potholes and bumps along the dirt road. As we neared the city, the roads got better. After a shaky two and a half hours, I haven’t been happier to be back on the solid ground of Dakar. It felt like coming home.

For more of my photos, follow these links.

Plage de Yoff
Saly Niakniakhale
Toubab Dialao
Île de Madeleine & Le Phare des Marmelles
Mermoz & Lac Rose

Sinom - Chewing Gum

My parents arrive in Dakar later this week. Via e-mail, I’ve asked them to bring me a few things. Even though it’s only been a little over a month spent living in Senegal, the list of things I want from home is lengthy. It honestly felt like I was a kid again writing to Santa Claus for every possible thing I wanted, hoping that maybe this year Santa would bring me my Mickey Mantle baseball card. This time around, I just asked for cheez-its. And a few other things. Here’s the list:

- Chocolate chip cookies. Or white chocolate cranberry cookies. Soft, not hard, please. Alternately, Jan Kay cookies or my mom’s oatmeal raisin chocolate chip cookies.
- My lightweight purple plaid shirt that I bought at a thrift store in Vermont. It breathes really well and doesn’t mark me as too much of a tourist.
- Packaged Foods (i.e. goldfish, milanos, cheez-its, chewy granola bars, etc.) I’m drooling just thinking about it.
- Vitamins with Calcium, Vitamin C, etc. The Senegalese seemingly have no concept of diet or nutrition. Everything is incredibly high in oil and fat, with vegetables being reserved for the poor. I miss salad, but in the meantime, I need some vitamins.
- Gatorade powder. I’m constantly sweating and getting very sick of drinking warm bottled water, I hope the Gatorade powder will help.
- My pillow. When I got to my room, there was no pillow. I asked for one and was given a pillow I think came from a couch in a pillowcase. It’s actually been surprisingly comfortable, but I do miss my pillow/bed from home so I thought I’d bring a piece of it here.
- A bar of dial soap. The stuff goes fast here and isn’t cheap.
- Miniature battery powered fan. At the risk of looking like a tool, I have wanted one of these since my first day here. You wouldn’t believe how miserably hot it can get.
- My translucent yellow sunglasses. These are actually my brothers but I’ve taken to wearing them. I lost my Texas blue-blockers at the beach a couple weeks ago and since then the world has been very bright. I still mourn the loss of those sunglasses I bought at a Dallas gas station for $7.
- A small mirror. Particularly when I had an eye infection here, having a mirror would have been helpful. Instead I have a lot of myspace-esque photos of myself on my camera to see if the infection had gone away or if I needed to shave.
- AA batteries for flashlight. The power continues to go out time and time again. And my family has decided that my flashlight is the go-to light source during dinner preparation and mealtime. The batteries go quick when used like this so I hope my parents bring a good amount.
- Big beach towel & normal towel. I nearly didn’t even bring a towel, assuming my family would give me one. Instead, I decided to bring one very small towel that I can’t wrap around my waist nor can I use at the beach as I’ll have nothing to shower with. I bought another towel but this one is also quite small and not beach worthy.
- Emergen-C. You wouldn’t believe how often people get colds here. Sort of defeats the purpose of calling it a cold. It’s an incredibly miserable feeling having a fever in 90 degree and humid weather. I’d like to avoid having any further experiences like that.
- Roll of toilet paper. I miss it, what can I say.
- White CD with my portfolio and mom's laptop. I’m applying to an internship program for the following summer that asks for my portfolio and for me to put together a series of print ads. Trying to find the Adobe Creative Suite programs in Senegal has not been easy.

So, Merry Early Christmas to me. Can’t wait to see you Mom & Dad!

Xaalis - Money

There are moments that this city begins to weigh down on me. Where I wish I could take a hot shower and scrub all the dirt off my face, just to feel clean for a moment. There are nights that I lie in bed wishing for the electricity (and my fan) to come back on so I can stop sweating into my mattress and fall asleep. Other days, I need to constantly be aware of where the nearest bathroom is, just because I know what’s around the corner and it ain’t pretty. It’s a society that highly values salutations but has no concept of sanitation. And don’t get me started on the Senegalese television shows and music videos that are always on.

Then, there are the times where you feel like you’ve escaped. That you’ve discovered some rare oasis in the midst of all the dirt, crying children and bus fumes. Recently, I’ve stumbled upon a number of these ‘petits paradis’. In downtown Dakar is the Institut Français which inside its walls and underneath the massive baobab tree at its center is a colorful restaurant that serves exotic salads and cheeses with names like Gruyére and Roquefort. Their bissap juice is my favorite in the city. Then there is the Île de Madeleine, a little island just off the coast of Dakar. For about $15, you can hire a guide and a pirogue to take you to this literal paradise. It is completely untouched nature and the only place in Dakar where we have been the only people there. The island was ours for a day and swimming in the natural salt-water pool, I couldn’t believe that this was my Friday afternoon. Yet, somehow in the midst of all that, I couldn’t get the thought of Jan Kay’s cookies out of my head. We’ve gotten very good at describing food to one another as the number of days without the comforts of things like fresh vegetables and pasta grows. Nearby my home is a bar which serves cold beer on tap in chilled mugs along with salted and sugared peanuts. Inside it is air-conditioned (powered by the generator chugging away outside), with comfortable seating and flat-screen televisions playing music videos. It’s a favorite hangout when the power is out. Recently, a number of us joined the local gym which turned out to be more of a country club. The pool has individual chaise lounges underneath palm trees and thatch umbrellas. There is a poolside bar/restaurant that serves delicious croques monsieurs and crêpes. When you have the pool to yourself, you can’t help but feel like you’re at a 5-star hotel in spite of the highway that’s on the other side of the wall. Earlier in the week, I went to my first art exhibition in Senegal. It was a photography exhibition put on by the Spanish embassy. We were in awe of the full complimentary bar with fresh bissap, baobab and tamarind juices, along with the tables of catered food and waiters waltzing around the room with platters of seared tuna skewers and phylo pastries. The only Senegalese people there were the caterers.

Places such as these have quickly become some of the favorite destinations of those of us in the program. However, what I realized is that none of these places have anything to do with actual life in Dakar. In addition, for the most part, they are completely inaccessible to the Senegalese people, not wholly for economic reasons but for cultural reasons as well. Maybe they don’t wish to go to places like these as they’re seemingly reserved for tourists or they believe that paying for such luxuries is absurd. The resultant segregation is sometimes upsetting but usually I’m too happy to be in a place that takes me back to the developed world to notice a thing.

Bind - Write

I haven’t frequently blogged in years. In 2003, I started my blog Firetrky. It was a place for me to vent about being bored on Friday nights spent at home, the absurd amounts of homework Mr. Siefring had given me and the poor decisions made by my volleyball coach. I continued updating it, albeit more infrequently, up until leaving for Senegal. I don’t like to read the archives anymore because I am embarrassed.

In Senegal, my blog has taken on a very different role and I’ve begun really writing again. I think the reason I blogged so much in high school was because I had a lot of time to think to myself on my subway rides home with headphones in or sitting awake in my bed at 2 in the morning. Here, there is a lot of time to think as well. At night during the week, there is not much to do and even less when the power goes out. When this is the case, I write. Or I think about what I want to write. Or I just think and then maybe write about it.

With my blog it is a way for me to let you all know I am still here. It’s a very odd concept that everything from Middlebury to my home to my friends to the Ad Store to New York City goes on without me. I also have been taking ‘too many’ pictures here. With an audience in mind, it helps me to edit them down. But above all I blog because I believe that if you care enough to want to read about what I’m doing I’d like to know what you’re doing. So, please, if you have my e-mail address, screen name or skype name (you can look me up on skype if you don’t have it already), I’d love to hear from you.

Wanag - Toilet

The power is out and the water has been shut off. At Liz’s home which is about a five minute walk from mine she has both electricity and water. My host brother Papi explained to me that it’s because she lives closer to the embassies that her sector isn’t shut off.

It’s going to be odd going back to America.

Jigéen - Girl

Although it is hailed as the beacon of democracy in Africa and the picture of stability in an unstable continent, Senegal remains one of the poorest nations in the world. This poverty is felt particularly hard by the children. In rural Senegal, where a woman has on average 7.6 children, many parents can’t afford to house and feed their enormous families. As a result, many children are sent to urban centers such as Dakar, St. Louis and Rufisque to fend for themselves.

Most of the boys become talibé, students of a marabout, and receive a koranic education. During this time, they will rise at around five, begin begging on the streets at six and only return home once they have collected enough money to give to their marabout (which doesn’t always happen and in which case they are beaten). When they are not collecting money, they will study the Koran. The case for girls is somewhat different. Upon entering the city, if the girls do not have any previous connections, they may simply wander the streets begging and looking for work. For these girls, many of them are taken into wealthier homes as maids.

As a maid, you clean every day, prepare all meals and do the laundry by hand. Nonetheless, maids are treated as family—albeit of a lower class. In my family there is one maid. Her name is Rama. I didn’t speak to her beyond saying “good morning, how are you?” for the first couple of weeks of living in the house. She would quietly step aside, eyes towards the ground, as I walked past her and down the steps she had just washed. She prepared my lunches for me when everyone else was fasting, bringing the plate of food to me and taking it away when I was done. She barely speaks any French but as my wolof has improved, I’ve gotten to know Rama better. She must be about 13, but the way that she laughs has the same joy as that a much younger child. It is an infectious laugh. Her and my host mother will talk in wolof, nearly all of which goes over my head, but then she will begin to laugh, rolling over and covering her face, laughing through her fingers. I think my host mother (who had four sons) is happy to have a girl around.

I now speak to Rama in my broken wolof which makes her smile. I still don’t completely understand how maids are treated here because at times she is treated as family and others as less than a servant. At dinner, when everyone else is handed a spoon to eat with, she is not offered one. Instead, once everyone has gotten their spoon and they have been placed back down does she grab her own. Usually only the smallest spoon is left. Then the times that her and my host mother lie on mats on the terrace rolling around laughing, she is truly a part of the family.

Cai Cai - A joker, flirt or womanizer

Every morning at around five, I am awoken by the voice of a man singing at the top of his lungs to the point that his voice cracks. His song trails off as he runs down the street, waking others in the neighborhood. For the first few times I heard him, I was convinced when I woke up to start my day later that morning that I was having a reoccurring dream. It wasn’t until I spoke about this with my host brother did I understand what it was (and that I wasn’t dreaming). During the Muslim holiday of Ramadan, nearly the entire country fasts from sunrise to sunset. This man whose singing was waking me had simply been serving Islam and waking people to remind them to eat before sunrise. His chants of ‘Wake up, It is time to eat. Eat, God willing, Eat!’ (a rough translation) were a nuisance to me, but like the other aspects of living in a Muslim society, they are something I’ve come to appreciate more and more. I’m sure I will miss them when I am gone.

Hearing the five prayers throughout the day gives a rhythm to the life here unlike any other place I’ve been. It is not uncommon for me to walk downstairs to brush my teeth in the morning and have to tiptoe silently past my host father as he quietly performs his morning prayers. At a certain time each Friday, everyone in Dakar stops what they’re doing (literally, everyone) and no matter if they are driving a car or on the phone, they begin to pray, bowing and kneeling in unison. Towards the end of the day, our professors are exhausted and drained having not eaten or drank anything all day. The number of children begging on the streets is shocking and upsetting. Even worse is that if you do give them money, much of it will go to their marabout (a Muslim religious leader who teaches young boys the Koran—but many use these méfiants talibés simply as a means of supporting themselves). Friends of mine saw a man who had died in the middle of downtown Dakar, most likely as a result of heat stroke. Everyone simply walked past without doing anything—they say that if you die during Ramadan, you go straight to heaven.

Living in a Muslim society during Ramadan has without question been one of the most incredible experiences of my life, but like most things, I needed a break. Life in Dakar can definitely be overwhelming at times. There are constantly people coming up to you asking you for money or to buy their goods (which they assure you are for a good price). There’s a visible haze from the pollution caused by cars and buses which should have been retired long ago. The rice and fish diet has its limits—which have long been surpassed. Luckily, this past weekend, I escaped.

Earlier in the week, I met a guy named Vince through a friend of mine. Liz (one of my best friends from Midd who also came on the same program) and I were invited to his house to drink tea and relax by another friend on the program. He only lives a block away from me, directly across from the bakery and mosque I walk past every morning on my way to school. However, I’d never met or seen him before.

Thus far, it’s been very difficult for me to make Senegalese friends. This is largely due to the fact that so many people who you assume are simply being friendly are simply doing it for monetary or other personal gains. People on the streets will come up to you, calling you their friend and putting on their biggest smile simply so that you will come look at their clothing stand. Others will tell you that they’ve met you before at so-and-so place, or through so-and-so, and that you should hang out again some time. And give them your phone number. It’s not always true. So, to say the least, I was a little bit fed up with it and had nearly given up on attempting to make some Senegalese friends of my own. Luckily, Wednesday night was different. We sat outdoors in the courtyard, drinking tea and speaking in French with Vince and his friends. His house serves as a meeting place for everyone in the neighborhood, with people coming and going constantly and people he doesn’t know being welcomed warmly. Some people drank gazelles (one of the two local beers) while others sipped on shot-glass sized cups of particularly strong and extra sweet tea. Playing from the speakers were American hip-hop songs. Occasionally we’d hear a Senegalese song mixed in. We spent a few hours there joking around and speaking about life in the neighborhood, how difficult it is for Americans and Senegalese to become friends and the state of things in the country. As I had class the next morning I had to head home, but we exchanged phone numbers and agreed it would be great to meet up again.



On Thursday night, after getting home at around 3, I got a text message from Vince inviting Liz and I out to a place called Saly for the weekend. One of the few Christians in the neighborhood, Vince is part of the Young Christians of Mermoz (the neighborhood I live in). Now, before you jump to conclusions, please continue reading. For the past eight years, his youth group has headed to out to Saly each summer where they rent a house nearby the beach and hang out for the weekend. I didn’t know anyone besides Vince and was definitely nervous without knowing anything about the trip or the people going on it. Also, did I really want to spend my weekend with a Christian youth group?? I looked up what I could about Saly in my Lonely Planet guide and decided that although I’d be missing out on surfing lessons, a birthday dinner at the Institut Français and a night at the karaoke bar downtown with friends from the program, I should go. So far every risk I’ve taken has paid off and it’s something I plan on continuing.



Liz and I met up before heading over to Vince’s house where everyone would be leaving from. Since everything here runs on Senegalese time (which is to say it runs anywhere from 15 minutes to 2-3 hours after they say), we sat around in the courtyard waiting for the bus to arrive. This time a lot more people had beer; then the drums arrived, then more people. Soon enough, there was a drum circle with men singing songs and dancing feverishly. It was a little bit surreal. Eventually, the drum circle broke up and we headed to the bus. As we got there, people were in a line tossing crates of beer up to the top of the bus. I realized that these people planned on bringing enough beer to supply a small store—or army. They kept on coming and the stack on top of the bus continued to get dangerously taller (and more wobbly). It quickly became apparent that what I had signed up for was less of a Christian religious retreat, but rather more of a Spring Break in Cancun type experience. The drums made their way out again, the people drank more beer and the party started—on the bus ride out. In the back of the bus, the drummers settled in as I squeezed myself into a seat further up front. The men began singing songs, passing beer and whiskey cokes around. The drums grew louder and people stood up on the chairs. For the duration of the two hour bus ride, the singing never ceased with songs ranging from Wolof drinking songs to French Christmas carols. Many lost their voices on the way out to the real party.




Once we arrived at the house, it was like entering a run down Miami mansion, complete with an airy living room, upstairs terrace and palm trees. There were 5 bedrooms for about 40 people, meaning we were going to be sleeping on the floor or outside. The party had already started hours ago even before the bus ride and went on until 5 in the morning with the DJ playing music all night and people dancing around wildly with beers in hand. I absolutely couldn’t keep up. The night before I was out until 4 am and had not mentally prepared at all for what kind of weekend this was going to be. By around two, Liz and I were wiped and decided to give sleeping a shot, promising everyone else that we’d do better the following night. She took part of the bed while I found a spot on the floor. Given the music that was blasting, people coming in and out of the room to use the bathroom and insane number of mosquitoes, sleep was hard to come by. Once the music was turned off and the mosquitoes went to bed did I finally fall asleep.



The next day, after being woken up at 8, everyone began drinking. Again. I simply ate my breakfast and headed to beach, not being able to bring myself to down a beer before noon. The beach was vacant with pristine sand and calm water. I laid out my towel and fell asleep for a while. Upon returning to the house, everything was as we had left it, but people were a little more drunk. Many people had slept outside, and some had gone to the beach to sleep to escape the mosquitoes. Later that night, it was time to begin preparing for the next day’s lunch. It seems that for Christians here, as they are the minority in a more strict Muslim-dominated society, tend to do a lot of things because they can. Which is to say, the drink a lot because they can. They listen to music very loudly during Ramadan because they can. And (in regards to the next days lunch) they eat pork because they can. And like everything else on the weekend, this too was taken to the extreme. I had been told we’d be having pork but wasn’t told that we’d be killing two pigs for the meat. They were brought to the house in what looked like potato sacks, only being distinguishable through their wriggling around their squeals. (Note: if you’re easily upset by blood or a vegetarian you may want to skip this section) Piére, one of the older members of the group, cut the bag open and dragged the screaming pig out by its ears. Four men pinned the pig down as Piere dug a large knife into it’s neck, twisting and thrusting it forcefully. The pigs cries were traumatizing and soon became garbled out. Under lamp light it was a very dramatic scene and seriously made me consider becoming a vegetarian. But then I thought about how absurd vegetarianism is and quickly righted myself. The pig was skinned, gutted and hung from a tree branch. I took a lot of pictures.



Later that night, I got a bit into the swing of things. The Senegalese definitely know to move. No matter what they were doing, they made it seem effortless and cool. I tried to hold my own as everyone danced but wound up making a fool of myself. Though a number of people did actually tell me I was a good dancer. At around 2, we left the house to head to another enormous house with a group from another neighborhood who had also come out for the weekend. We walked along the beach under the moonlight and made it to the house which had a full bar, pool and DJ. I was unbelievably intimidated by the number of fantastic dancers there but after a couple drinks I got involved and this time I did hold my own. Playing a mix of Cuban-inspired Senegalese music and hip-hop, everyone danced through the night. We made our way back a bit before 5 and fell asleep promptly in spite of the mosquitoes who had settled in our room after someone had left the door open all night.

The next day for lunch, the pork was served. I took a bite and realized I could never live without meat. And that I really do like pork. In only a matter of a couple days I had done everything a Muslim couldn’t be doing. It was an incredible break from my life in Dakar, but I will admit I was glad to come home and wake up to the man’s song the following morning.