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.
