My family, especially the older generation (my mother, my uncle, my mother’s friend), is very Catholic. Mama and Helene go to mass even on the weekdays, and Mama will drag all the kids upstairs to pray with her in the evenings. I’ve walked in on her saying prayers at a little shrine thing in her room (I have to walk through there to get to the bathroom) and there’s Catholic iconography in every room. I don’t know it in English, but I can just about recite a Hail Mary in French because I hear it all the time. Moussouba has one praise song on her cell phone, and sometimes Mama will make her play it over and over and over again for her, and she’ll sing and dance and clap along with the music. She talks about Jesu Christ all the time. In fact, she never seems happier or more animated then when she’s talking about the will of God or the power of Jesus.
I went to mass with her and Fatima once. They told me it was at 11, so I got up early enough to shower, eat, and allow about 30 minutes to get there because I had no idea where the church was. I should have known that that wasn’t necessary. Apparently mass isn’t exempt from the Senegalese understanding of “on time,” and we didn’t even leave until 11:30. We got there halfway through the sermon, which I didn’t really understand. I admit to being a little bit bemused that day and not in a particularly good frame of mind to try and understand what was happening. The priest kept asking questions and bringing children up to give the answers, which were usually single words, like “Jesus,” Everyone,” and “the Holy Spirit.” There was music and singing, but no hymnals. Someone would start playing drums and the choir would start singing, and then the rest of the congregation would join in, which was kind of cool but meant that I couldn’t follow along. I didn’t take Communion because I know that, technically, non-Catholics are not allowed to take Communion at Catholic mass, but I don’t think my family or really anyone there was clued into that rule or would have been too bothered by my breaking it. We were only there for about 30 minutes because we’d arrived so late.
The church itself is kind of distinctive. It looks sort of weird and geometric on the outside, which is kind of a theme in African/Senegalese architecture I think, but the inside is cool. It’s a very simple rectangular layout. It’s wider than it is long, which is different from most churches I’ve been in, and the doors in the back, which are kept open during the service, are so big that the church feels like it only has three walls. The walls to the left and right of the pews have huge windows that I can only really describe as “colored.” It’s not stained glass like you see in American and European churches, but its very vivid and very beautiful. The front wall behind the altar is painted in a very simple, striking African style. That said, I can’t for the life of me remember what is in the painting. There was a big Jesus-on-cross-with-crown-of-thorns on the left, but there were a whole bunch of other people painted in the center and to the right. It was either scenes from the Bible or scenes from African history. The church is named Church of the Martyrs of Uganda, so the history thing is likely. I will definitely pay better attention next time I go.
I slept too late to go to mass with my mother this weekend, but I still managed to get in a strong dose of religion. My uncle came by later in the afternoon. He asked me if I had gone to mass that morning, which ended up leading to a more general discussion of my religious practices. He likes to talk to me and find out what I’m learning and what my opinions are about things and then tell me what all his opinions are. I told him that I’m Anglican, and he immediately came out with the one thing that he knew about the Episcopal Church: we have gay priests. I said yes, we even have a gay bishop, and it’s causing a lot of commotion in the Anglican Communion. He asked me if I supported the gay bishop, and I said yes without really thinking of the can of worms I was opening. He got this very serious look on his face and said, “Oooh, that’s not good. Let’s discuss this.”
And so we did. We discussed for probably 10 minutes before his phone started ringing and he said he had to go. But he promised me that he would come back so that we could continue the discussion, and he made good on that promise. He came back that evening and made me talk to him about this for at least another half an hour.
That’s a hard enough debate to have in English, but I did it all in French and not only did I make myself understood, I held my own. I certainly didn’t convince him of anything, and I’m pretty sure he thinks I (and by extension, all American Protestants) am a godless heathen, but he was very interested what I had to say and very patient with me when I was struggling to find the words. It was hard for me not just because it was in a foreign language but also because I’ve never really had this debate one-on-one before and I wasn’t quite sure of how to articulate my position. The conversation was actually much more sophisticated than I would have thought it would be, considering the fact that I was debating the place of homosexuals in the clergy with an African Catholic. But he’s not an irrational homophobe – he’s a thoughtful, modern Catholic. We talked about literal interpretation of scriptures, whether or not the Bible contradicts itself, and whether or not religion should evolve with society or stay constant. The whole time we were talking I was sort of desperate for him to release me, but I’m glad he kept me at it for so long. It was an interesting experience.
February 11, 2009
February 9, 2009
Going out
I haven’t really gone out much on the weekends. The first weekend I was here, I went to a party at Moussouba’s boyfriend’s house with Moussouba, Kiki, and Fatima. I think she said they were all his friends from church choir (turns out, Catholic people here just know more Catholic people). There was lots of food and music, so I danced some and listened to people talk around me without understanding hardly anything. They played this game in which someone produced a scarf, threw it around you and used it to haul you out of your chair, tied it around your hips, pushed you into the middle of the room, and forced you to do a dance that prominently featured your butt. Resistance was futile. It was actually pretty fun and funny, and now every time Abibou comes over, he says hello to me from one of his friends.
The next weekend, I went to a music club called Just 4 U with Ryaunte and Andrew, a kid in my neighborhood who’s here on the MSID program, and a bunch of the other MSID kids. It’s a pretty classy place (a Fanta there was 2 000 francs; at WARC, they’re 200) and it attracts big names in the Senegalese and international music scene. I liked the guy who was playing, even though he was singing in Wolof and I couldn’t understand anything, and I had a good time, but man, I am totally lame. This leave at 11 PM, come home at 4 AM thing is going to take some getting used to.
Two weekends ago was the failed SuperBowl endeavor, but this weekend Moussouba took me out again. Abibou’s choir was doing a concert followed by a soirée at their church in Yoff, so we went to that. I let Moussouba do my makeup, and she decided that the raccoon look was going to be good for me. I was slightly hugely horrified when I looked at myself in the mirror and saw how much eyeliner she had put on me, but she, Fatima, and Anita looked satisfied. They said I looked really pretty, “Ils sautent!” (Your eyes really pop!), so I didn’t say anything. I figured I wasn’t going to see anyone I knew there and it was going to be dark anyway, so there wasn’t much harm in going out like that.
We left about an hour after the concert started and our taxi got a flat tire. Moussouba and I staying in the car while the driver changed the tire. I wanted to burst out laughing and explain to Moussouba that in the US, no one would wait for their taxi driver to change a flat when they were already late; they would get out and get another taxi. But I didn’t.
The concert was pretty much just 20 kids who really love Jesus singing and dancing about how much they really love Jesus. It was about 11 PM when we got there, and I admit that the combination of the time, the Wolof lyrics, and mediocre singing were putting me to sleep. I was really happy for the concert to be over. The party afterwards was fun. There was a DJ and dancing, which kept me awake. The DJ played huge block of fast dance music and then a similarly huge block of slow music. The slow music is fine, because Senegalese guys will ask strangers to dance and they all dance really well, but every single guy there must have thought that I’m a moron. They all tried to talk to me, and even though they’re spoke right into my ear, the fact that it was French, I couldn’t see their faces, and there was loud music playing meant that I never understood what they were saying to me, even after the second or third repetition. I was also a little self-conscious about my dancing. In the US, the point of slow dancing, at least in high school, is pressing up against someone for 3:47. In Senegal, you’re actually supposed to bring a little bit of rhythm and movement. I have no idea if I was doing well or not. One guy asked me where I learned to dance like this, which seemed like a compliment, but another one dropped me as soon as the song changed, which didn’t.
It was closing in on 3 AM when Moussouba got hungry and tired, so we left and walked to Abibou’s house. She had a snack (leftover meat and bread from dinner) and we hung out for a little while watching music videos on TV before catching a taxi home.
The next weekend, I went to a music club called Just 4 U with Ryaunte and Andrew, a kid in my neighborhood who’s here on the MSID program, and a bunch of the other MSID kids. It’s a pretty classy place (a Fanta there was 2 000 francs; at WARC, they’re 200) and it attracts big names in the Senegalese and international music scene. I liked the guy who was playing, even though he was singing in Wolof and I couldn’t understand anything, and I had a good time, but man, I am totally lame. This leave at 11 PM, come home at 4 AM thing is going to take some getting used to.
Two weekends ago was the failed SuperBowl endeavor, but this weekend Moussouba took me out again. Abibou’s choir was doing a concert followed by a soirée at their church in Yoff, so we went to that. I let Moussouba do my makeup, and she decided that the raccoon look was going to be good for me. I was slightly hugely horrified when I looked at myself in the mirror and saw how much eyeliner she had put on me, but she, Fatima, and Anita looked satisfied. They said I looked really pretty, “Ils sautent!” (Your eyes really pop!), so I didn’t say anything. I figured I wasn’t going to see anyone I knew there and it was going to be dark anyway, so there wasn’t much harm in going out like that.
We left about an hour after the concert started and our taxi got a flat tire. Moussouba and I staying in the car while the driver changed the tire. I wanted to burst out laughing and explain to Moussouba that in the US, no one would wait for their taxi driver to change a flat when they were already late; they would get out and get another taxi. But I didn’t.
The concert was pretty much just 20 kids who really love Jesus singing and dancing about how much they really love Jesus. It was about 11 PM when we got there, and I admit that the combination of the time, the Wolof lyrics, and mediocre singing were putting me to sleep. I was really happy for the concert to be over. The party afterwards was fun. There was a DJ and dancing, which kept me awake. The DJ played huge block of fast dance music and then a similarly huge block of slow music. The slow music is fine, because Senegalese guys will ask strangers to dance and they all dance really well, but every single guy there must have thought that I’m a moron. They all tried to talk to me, and even though they’re spoke right into my ear, the fact that it was French, I couldn’t see their faces, and there was loud music playing meant that I never understood what they were saying to me, even after the second or third repetition. I was also a little self-conscious about my dancing. In the US, the point of slow dancing, at least in high school, is pressing up against someone for 3:47. In Senegal, you’re actually supposed to bring a little bit of rhythm and movement. I have no idea if I was doing well or not. One guy asked me where I learned to dance like this, which seemed like a compliment, but another one dropped me as soon as the song changed, which didn’t.
It was closing in on 3 AM when Moussouba got hungry and tired, so we left and walked to Abibou’s house. She had a snack (leftover meat and bread from dinner) and we hung out for a little while watching music videos on TV before catching a taxi home.
February 6, 2009
A bunch of little things
As far as I know, the strike at UCAD continued for the rest of the week, but they're back on now. I didn’t hear too much about it, but I found out about some of the university’s problems. Apparently, it’s technically open to anyone who passes their Bac (a huge exam at the end of high school), but the administration does not admit many students. This is not because they’re looking for a lot of solid extracurriculars and leadership experience, but because there simply isn’t enough physical space for them. Apparently, some classes are so overcrowded that students sit on the floors or try to listen in from the hallways. It’s a catch-22; students, both current and prospective, want the administration to deal with the overcrowding and to admit more people.
They sell Magnum bars here. For 1200 francs (the price of a whole meal plus beverage at WARC) you can get yourself a slice of packaged European ice cream heaven on a stick.
My siblings are slightly shocked at the fact that I have no idea how to cook and have started to include me in making meals. Usually this means that they invote me to stand in the kitchen while they do all the work, but a few nights ago, I helped Kiki make mayonnaise in the food processor, and over the weekend I sliced carrots and some other white tuber thing that went into our lunch. My uncle said that before I leave I’m going to have to cook a meal for everyone all by myself. Moussouba tells me I have to be able to cook ceebujen for my family when I go home. It occurs to me now that my culinary ignorance might be something to mention when I am proposed to next. No Senegalese man wants a wife who can’t cook.
Moussouba made me an outfit. It’s a very tight knee-length skirt with a billowy white top that she embellished with beads and rhinestones. The colors are pretty and it fits me like a glove but I must say, it’s not really my style. I wore it to Mass last weekend but I don’t know how much wear it’s going to get. That skirt is awfully restrictive of movement. I asked Moussouba the other day how she knew what size I was without measuring me, and she just said, “Oh, we’re the same size.”
My oldest brother, Daniel, has a pet parrot named Sam. I’ve been told that this bird is more than 20 years old, which I actually believe. He certainly looks old. I suspect that he has mad cow disease, or a Yeerk, or some other brain illness. He’s always scratching his head like there’s something in there that he wants to get out. He can’t fly, but his cage doesn’t latch properly, so he gets out and walks around the back of the house all the time. No one seems to have any affection for him except for Danny. Anita in particular likes to mention that he is useless and we should just cook and eat him.
Around 5 or 6 PM, the beignet ladies join the ranks of the street vendors. Beignets are basically just balls of fried dough. They can be plain and sprinkled with sugar or stuffed with meat or fish. They’re cheap, delicious, and are the perfect snack to keep you going between lunch at 1 and dinner at 9. Ryaunte and I got some as we were walking home from WARC the other day.
Dad, they have pomelo flavored Fanta here. I haven’t sampled one yet, but maybe I’ll bring one back for you.
In case anyone was hoping for an update on Les Deux Visages d’Ana, here you go: Vicente has discovered that his older brother, Ignatio, who their father is grooming to take over the family company, has been cooking the books. Vicente decided that he had to tell someone about this, but that it would be a good idea to go out on the family yacht so that he could be by himself to think about this. Ignatio realized that Vicente had discovered his duplicity, so he hopped on the other family yacht in order to go after him and keep him from spilling the beans. Ignatio boarded ship and had a heated argument with Vicente. When it became clear that Vicente was not going to keep his mouth shut, Ignatio punched him out and then dumped his unconscious body overboard. He then sped back to shore, where the family soon realized that Vicente was missing. The search and rescue was not going well, but the last nail in Vicente’s coffin was the suicide note that Ignatio planted on his laptop. Everyone now thinks that Vicente killed himself, and Ignatio’s plot seems to be undetected. What will happen next??
One of the girls here, Marecca, has gotten malaria already. She caught it early and only had to take medicine for a few days, so she’s doing fine now, but still. That sucks. It’s really only topped by her roommate, Hanna, who managed to get shingles about a week in.
They sell Magnum bars here. For 1200 francs (the price of a whole meal plus beverage at WARC) you can get yourself a slice of packaged European ice cream heaven on a stick.
My siblings are slightly shocked at the fact that I have no idea how to cook and have started to include me in making meals. Usually this means that they invote me to stand in the kitchen while they do all the work, but a few nights ago, I helped Kiki make mayonnaise in the food processor, and over the weekend I sliced carrots and some other white tuber thing that went into our lunch. My uncle said that before I leave I’m going to have to cook a meal for everyone all by myself. Moussouba tells me I have to be able to cook ceebujen for my family when I go home. It occurs to me now that my culinary ignorance might be something to mention when I am proposed to next. No Senegalese man wants a wife who can’t cook.
Moussouba made me an outfit. It’s a very tight knee-length skirt with a billowy white top that she embellished with beads and rhinestones. The colors are pretty and it fits me like a glove but I must say, it’s not really my style. I wore it to Mass last weekend but I don’t know how much wear it’s going to get. That skirt is awfully restrictive of movement. I asked Moussouba the other day how she knew what size I was without measuring me, and she just said, “Oh, we’re the same size.”
My oldest brother, Daniel, has a pet parrot named Sam. I’ve been told that this bird is more than 20 years old, which I actually believe. He certainly looks old. I suspect that he has mad cow disease, or a Yeerk, or some other brain illness. He’s always scratching his head like there’s something in there that he wants to get out. He can’t fly, but his cage doesn’t latch properly, so he gets out and walks around the back of the house all the time. No one seems to have any affection for him except for Danny. Anita in particular likes to mention that he is useless and we should just cook and eat him.
Around 5 or 6 PM, the beignet ladies join the ranks of the street vendors. Beignets are basically just balls of fried dough. They can be plain and sprinkled with sugar or stuffed with meat or fish. They’re cheap, delicious, and are the perfect snack to keep you going between lunch at 1 and dinner at 9. Ryaunte and I got some as we were walking home from WARC the other day.
Dad, they have pomelo flavored Fanta here. I haven’t sampled one yet, but maybe I’ll bring one back for you.
In case anyone was hoping for an update on Les Deux Visages d’Ana, here you go: Vicente has discovered that his older brother, Ignatio, who their father is grooming to take over the family company, has been cooking the books. Vicente decided that he had to tell someone about this, but that it would be a good idea to go out on the family yacht so that he could be by himself to think about this. Ignatio realized that Vicente had discovered his duplicity, so he hopped on the other family yacht in order to go after him and keep him from spilling the beans. Ignatio boarded ship and had a heated argument with Vicente. When it became clear that Vicente was not going to keep his mouth shut, Ignatio punched him out and then dumped his unconscious body overboard. He then sped back to shore, where the family soon realized that Vicente was missing. The search and rescue was not going well, but the last nail in Vicente’s coffin was the suicide note that Ignatio planted on his laptop. Everyone now thinks that Vicente killed himself, and Ignatio’s plot seems to be undetected. What will happen next??
One of the girls here, Marecca, has gotten malaria already. She caught it early and only had to take medicine for a few days, so she’s doing fine now, but still. That sucks. It’s really only topped by her roommate, Hanna, who managed to get shingles about a week in.
February 5, 2009
Excursion to Thiès
My mother is warming up to me a little more, or at least, I’ve spent a little more time with her. The family saw fit to include me in some drama two weekends ago now, which I guess is a good sign? They asked me on Friday if I wanted to come with them to Thiès, which I knew was a town somewhere out side the city. I didn’t know why we were going, exactly, but I was excited that my mother wanted to include me in something she was doing, so I said yes. I figured we were going to a market or visiting someone or something. My Lonely Planet says there’s not much in Thiès aside from a really cool tapestry factory, and I thought that maybe I could take a look in there while everyone else was haggling over rice or whatever. I was a little less excited when they said we were leaving at 7 AM, but I was still ready to go. The party was going to include me, Kiki, my mother, her friend Helene, and her brother (so, my uncle), who’s name I’m not really sure of. Every time I hear anyone say it, I think they’re saying Desiree, which can’t be right. It’s a bit of a Rural Juror situation.
We left the next morning (at like 9, not 7, thanks for making me wake at 6 for no reason, guys) in the family car. It took us about 2 hours to get to Thiès, first because it is a little ways away, and second because of the traffic jams. It was a nice-ish ride though. The landscape isn’t much to look at because there hasn’t been any rain here for months (it’s the dry season), so all the grass is brown and dry and none of the baobab trees have leaves. Senegal has adopted the baobab as a symbol because they’re so long lived and useful, but I have to say, they’re totally ugly. They’re kind of cool to see on the sides of the highway, because you know that the only water nearby is stored in those trees, but man, they are weird-looking. But aside from the baobabs, I got to see a tiny bit of Rufisque, which is an old colonial city. There’s not much there any more, but even just driving through, you could see how it could have been bustling and pretty once.
There’s also a really great cement factory, if you’re into that kind of thing.
We finally got to Thiès and pulled up to a very nicely kept complex that felt like a monastery. Turns out, it was a school that Kiki had been going to for a while but apparently failed out of. We were going there to pick up his stuff. I stood around while my mother and my uncle talked to the priests for a while, and then we got back in to the car, at which time the two of them, the uncle in particular, started berating Kiki for doing badly in school, squandering his opportunities, and letting the family down. This continued until we got to another school, where Kiki and my mother went to talk to someone, and my uncle spent a lot of time explaining to me why Kiki was such a disappointment. It was brutally awkward for me, but they invited me to come with them and they at least knew why we were going, so I guess it was alright with them that I was there.
The ride back was just as long, if not longer, because the traffic jams were worse. Vendors take advantage of the stopped and the fact that everyone has to have their windows open (because no one has working AC in their car) to try and sell things to people. I guess it works; my uncle bought an air freshener.
When we got back into Dakar, my uncle pulled the car over to a restaurant and insisted on buying me a Coke and a hamburger while everyone else sat in the car. That was also awkward, but they didn’t seem to mind. And omg, it was delicious. The Senegalese put a fried egg and French fries on their hamburgers, which made this the densest burger I’ve ever eaten, but the sheer fact of beef, ketchup, and non-baguette bread in my mouth was glorious.
We left the next morning (at like 9, not 7, thanks for making me wake at 6 for no reason, guys) in the family car. It took us about 2 hours to get to Thiès, first because it is a little ways away, and second because of the traffic jams. It was a nice-ish ride though. The landscape isn’t much to look at because there hasn’t been any rain here for months (it’s the dry season), so all the grass is brown and dry and none of the baobab trees have leaves. Senegal has adopted the baobab as a symbol because they’re so long lived and useful, but I have to say, they’re totally ugly. They’re kind of cool to see on the sides of the highway, because you know that the only water nearby is stored in those trees, but man, they are weird-looking. But aside from the baobabs, I got to see a tiny bit of Rufisque, which is an old colonial city. There’s not much there any more, but even just driving through, you could see how it could have been bustling and pretty once.
There’s also a really great cement factory, if you’re into that kind of thing.
We finally got to Thiès and pulled up to a very nicely kept complex that felt like a monastery. Turns out, it was a school that Kiki had been going to for a while but apparently failed out of. We were going there to pick up his stuff. I stood around while my mother and my uncle talked to the priests for a while, and then we got back in to the car, at which time the two of them, the uncle in particular, started berating Kiki for doing badly in school, squandering his opportunities, and letting the family down. This continued until we got to another school, where Kiki and my mother went to talk to someone, and my uncle spent a lot of time explaining to me why Kiki was such a disappointment. It was brutally awkward for me, but they invited me to come with them and they at least knew why we were going, so I guess it was alright with them that I was there.
The ride back was just as long, if not longer, because the traffic jams were worse. Vendors take advantage of the stopped and the fact that everyone has to have their windows open (because no one has working AC in their car) to try and sell things to people. I guess it works; my uncle bought an air freshener.
When we got back into Dakar, my uncle pulled the car over to a restaurant and insisted on buying me a Coke and a hamburger while everyone else sat in the car. That was also awkward, but they didn’t seem to mind. And omg, it was delicious. The Senegalese put a fried egg and French fries on their hamburgers, which made this the densest burger I’ve ever eaten, but the sheer fact of beef, ketchup, and non-baguette bread in my mouth was glorious.
February 4, 2009
Love and Marriage . . .
I had my first marriage proposal last weekend. Fatima and Moussouba took me downtown with them so that Fatima could buy new pants and shoes. “Downtown,” the streets are lined with tiny shops selling fabric, clothes, shoes, house wares, and electronics, and the sidewalks are crowded with people selling the same things off of racks, carts, tables, or blankets on the ground. There are also guys who walk around with the arms and necks draped with belts and jewelry, who try to get you to buy things using the direct approach of shoving things in your face. Its very noisy and very crowded.
Anyway, Fatima found a guy with a rack of decent looking jeans, and about 3 nanoseconds after we paused to take a closer look, the guy and his friends produced stools for us to sit on so that we could gaze at his wares in comfort. While he gave Fatima a detailed tour of his selection, the guy in charge of the next rack over started talking to me. We went through the usual introductory questions (what’s your name, where do you live, where are you from, did you vote for Obama, how long have you been here, how long are you staying, do you like ceebujen) and then started talking about my love life. Once you say that you’re not married, it’s all over. Telling the guys here that you already have a boyfriend is completely useless. They either say that they would only date girls who already have boyfriends, because that means that they’re nice, likeable girls, or that having a boyfriend far away doesn’t matter or doesn’t count. I tried to say that I have a lot of things to do before I get married, like finish university and work for a while, but this guy said that I could still do those things if I was married. I tried to say that he would have to talk to my father about this, and he promptly asked for Dad’s phone number. I tried to say that I didn’t want to get married at all, and he pretty much told me not to be ridiculous, of course I wanted to get married, all girls do. Then he started pestering me for my phone number, which is where it starts to get less fun and flattering and more annoying. Thankfully, I was saved from having to make up 6 excuses for why he couldn’t have my phone number because Fatima had concluded her business and we were ready to go. Ciao, pants guy, it’s been fun. I hope you complete your quest for a green card one day.
Fatima scolded me a little for giving the guy my real name. She said that when guys downtown ask for my name, I should give them my Senegalese name, which is Aminata. I wasn’t too concerned about having given him “Kiersten” though. No one can figure out my name here. The ones who listen closely think it’s “Kristen,” but more often than not, I get “Kristel.” It took the members of my family several days to get it right, so I don’t think I have to worry about the pants guy coming for me.
That’s been my only “serious” proposal so far. I was waiting for some friends outside and ATM once, and the ancient ATM guard starting talking to me about my marriage prospects. We both knew he was way too old to have a shot with me, but apparently marriage is something that the men here never tire of talking about. Some guys here learn a few choice phrases of English, so I hear, “You are so beautiful, I love you,” a lot. I’ve had guys walk with me and beg for my phone number on a few occasions. Once I was by myself and a group of about 4 guy descended upon me, speaking more Wolof than French, and actually pulled my cell phone out of my backpack, catching me lying about not having a cell phone in the first place. They laughed and passed it around between them as I stammered, “Excusez-moi, c’est le mien, j’en ai besoin! Donnez-moi, soit gentil!” (Excuse me, that’s mine, I need it. Give it to me, be nice!) I thought they were going to walk off of with it, but they decided to be nice after all. They gave it back to me and went down a side street, but that was a nerve-wracking couple of minutes.
You get into the habit of ignoring people when they talk to you on the street, which is sometimes unwise. Twice now, Ryaunte and I have been walking home from school and have ignored people shouting to us from cars. Turns out, they were people that we knew offering to give us rides. Oops.
Anyway, Fatima found a guy with a rack of decent looking jeans, and about 3 nanoseconds after we paused to take a closer look, the guy and his friends produced stools for us to sit on so that we could gaze at his wares in comfort. While he gave Fatima a detailed tour of his selection, the guy in charge of the next rack over started talking to me. We went through the usual introductory questions (what’s your name, where do you live, where are you from, did you vote for Obama, how long have you been here, how long are you staying, do you like ceebujen) and then started talking about my love life. Once you say that you’re not married, it’s all over. Telling the guys here that you already have a boyfriend is completely useless. They either say that they would only date girls who already have boyfriends, because that means that they’re nice, likeable girls, or that having a boyfriend far away doesn’t matter or doesn’t count. I tried to say that I have a lot of things to do before I get married, like finish university and work for a while, but this guy said that I could still do those things if I was married. I tried to say that he would have to talk to my father about this, and he promptly asked for Dad’s phone number. I tried to say that I didn’t want to get married at all, and he pretty much told me not to be ridiculous, of course I wanted to get married, all girls do. Then he started pestering me for my phone number, which is where it starts to get less fun and flattering and more annoying. Thankfully, I was saved from having to make up 6 excuses for why he couldn’t have my phone number because Fatima had concluded her business and we were ready to go. Ciao, pants guy, it’s been fun. I hope you complete your quest for a green card one day.
Fatima scolded me a little for giving the guy my real name. She said that when guys downtown ask for my name, I should give them my Senegalese name, which is Aminata. I wasn’t too concerned about having given him “Kiersten” though. No one can figure out my name here. The ones who listen closely think it’s “Kristen,” but more often than not, I get “Kristel.” It took the members of my family several days to get it right, so I don’t think I have to worry about the pants guy coming for me.
That’s been my only “serious” proposal so far. I was waiting for some friends outside and ATM once, and the ancient ATM guard starting talking to me about my marriage prospects. We both knew he was way too old to have a shot with me, but apparently marriage is something that the men here never tire of talking about. Some guys here learn a few choice phrases of English, so I hear, “You are so beautiful, I love you,” a lot. I’ve had guys walk with me and beg for my phone number on a few occasions. Once I was by myself and a group of about 4 guy descended upon me, speaking more Wolof than French, and actually pulled my cell phone out of my backpack, catching me lying about not having a cell phone in the first place. They laughed and passed it around between them as I stammered, “Excusez-moi, c’est le mien, j’en ai besoin! Donnez-moi, soit gentil!” (Excuse me, that’s mine, I need it. Give it to me, be nice!) I thought they were going to walk off of with it, but they decided to be nice after all. They gave it back to me and went down a side street, but that was a nerve-wracking couple of minutes.
You get into the habit of ignoring people when they talk to you on the street, which is sometimes unwise. Twice now, Ryaunte and I have been walking home from school and have ignored people shouting to us from cars. Turns out, they were people that we knew offering to give us rides. Oops.
February 2, 2009
Classes
I’m learning Wolof. It’s hard. It makes my head spin. I have class on Thursday afternoons, and I leave feeling exhausted, as if I’ve been running laps for 3 hours instead of just taking notes. It wasn’t like this when I was learning French, though admittedly, I didn’t have marathon 3-hour classes in seventh grade.
The whole program is taking Wolof, but we’ve been split into two different groups. The teacher for my group is named Sidy Gueye, and he is probably the skinniest man I have ever seen. He always wears long, voluminous African robes instead of European clothing, which sort of makes him look like the pole sticking out of the center of a circus tent. He’s very animated and very funny, which is hugely important. It means that even though our class is draining, it’s not boring. He likes to go around the room and have us repeat phrases and words so he can make sure our pronunciation is right. The Wolof word for “yes” is “waaw,” and Sidy says it every time someone says something right. This cracks me up, because “waaw” is pronounced the same as the English “wow,” and that sound combined with his overexcited mannerisms makes it seem like he is bowled over by our brilliance every single time.
I’ve never before had a class that’s been taught in 3 languages. Sidy’s not very consistent as to which language he translates into from Wolof. He was trying to tell us what the Wolof “fan” meant, and I spent several minutes trying to figure out if I’d ever heard the French word “wère” before I realized that he was going for the English “where.”
For now, we’re mostly just learning useful phrases, like greetings, questions, and words about food. Wolof grammar is very different from English or French grammar (for example: verbs aren’t as complicated, but there are more than enough pronouns to make up for that), so we’re not really working on that yet. For now, its just “things you’re going to here a lot and what you should say back.”
And now, for your bemusement, I present a simple Wolof conversation.
Asalaam Maalekum! Hello!
Maalekum salaam, nanga def? Hello, how are you?
Maangi fi rekk, yow nak? I’m fine, and you?
Maangi fi. Noo tudd? I’m fine. What’s your name?
Maangi tudd Aminata, ci Wolof. My name is Aminata, in Wolof.
Fanga dëkk? Where do you live?
Maangi dëkk Sacré Coeur I live in Sacré Coeur.
Naka waa kër ga? How’s your family.
Nunga fa. They’re fine.
Kaay lekk! Come eat!
De-det, lekk naa ba fii. No, I’ve eaten enough.
Ba beenen yoon. See you another time.
My other classes are going well enough. In African Literature, we’re reading Le monde s’effondre, better known as Things Fall Apart, which means that I have now read this book for class on three separate occasions. It also means that I’m a little bit frustrated at the level of our class discussion. Few people in the class are language or literature majors and we’re all a little bit handicapped by having to discuss in French. We spent a lot of time this week talking about how Okokwo is governed by fear despite his role as a warrior because that’s really obvious and we all knew how to say “fear” in French. Hopefully, when we move on to something I haven’t read before, I’ll be a little less bored.
I really like History of Islam in Senegal and Resolutions of Conflicts in West Africa. I’m learning about things that I’ve never learned about before, or at least not in this detail. I’m finding that what I learned in International Law last semester is really helpful for Conflicts. Also, these classes are going to be great because we’re going on some rockin’ field trips. For Islam, we’re going to visit some mosques in the city, and for Conflicts, we’re going to a Red Cross center and, I think I understood this correctly, a refugee camp somewhere. That’s something I couldn’t do at UMass.
I signed up for my last class, African Cinema, once I realized that IFE wasn’t going to work out, so I’ve only been to one meeting. This class is nice because it’s not 3 hours of straight lecture. We get to stop and watch a movie in the middle, which is particularly good for this class because the professor doesn’t write anything down as he talks and he doesn’t seem to have planned lectures. I can handle that when the class is in English, but when I have to strain to understand what he’s saying in the first place and then decide on top of that what’s important, my notes tend to be a little sparse.
I have very little reading and very little homework that’s due every day. Most of my classes have one big project or presentation or paper, which means that, for the time being, I have a lot of downtime that I don’t really know what to do with, and I’m actually a little bit bored. I have heard things about people adding internships or volunteer work to their schedules while they’ve been here, so that might be something for me to look into.
The whole program is taking Wolof, but we’ve been split into two different groups. The teacher for my group is named Sidy Gueye, and he is probably the skinniest man I have ever seen. He always wears long, voluminous African robes instead of European clothing, which sort of makes him look like the pole sticking out of the center of a circus tent. He’s very animated and very funny, which is hugely important. It means that even though our class is draining, it’s not boring. He likes to go around the room and have us repeat phrases and words so he can make sure our pronunciation is right. The Wolof word for “yes” is “waaw,” and Sidy says it every time someone says something right. This cracks me up, because “waaw” is pronounced the same as the English “wow,” and that sound combined with his overexcited mannerisms makes it seem like he is bowled over by our brilliance every single time.
I’ve never before had a class that’s been taught in 3 languages. Sidy’s not very consistent as to which language he translates into from Wolof. He was trying to tell us what the Wolof “fan” meant, and I spent several minutes trying to figure out if I’d ever heard the French word “wère” before I realized that he was going for the English “where.”
For now, we’re mostly just learning useful phrases, like greetings, questions, and words about food. Wolof grammar is very different from English or French grammar (for example: verbs aren’t as complicated, but there are more than enough pronouns to make up for that), so we’re not really working on that yet. For now, its just “things you’re going to here a lot and what you should say back.”
And now, for your bemusement, I present a simple Wolof conversation.
Asalaam Maalekum! Hello!
Maalekum salaam, nanga def? Hello, how are you?
Maangi fi rekk, yow nak? I’m fine, and you?
Maangi fi. Noo tudd? I’m fine. What’s your name?
Maangi tudd Aminata, ci Wolof. My name is Aminata, in Wolof.
Fanga dëkk? Where do you live?
Maangi dëkk Sacré Coeur I live in Sacré Coeur.
Naka waa kër ga? How’s your family.
Nunga fa. They’re fine.
Kaay lekk! Come eat!
De-det, lekk naa ba fii. No, I’ve eaten enough.
Ba beenen yoon. See you another time.
My other classes are going well enough. In African Literature, we’re reading Le monde s’effondre, better known as Things Fall Apart, which means that I have now read this book for class on three separate occasions. It also means that I’m a little bit frustrated at the level of our class discussion. Few people in the class are language or literature majors and we’re all a little bit handicapped by having to discuss in French. We spent a lot of time this week talking about how Okokwo is governed by fear despite his role as a warrior because that’s really obvious and we all knew how to say “fear” in French. Hopefully, when we move on to something I haven’t read before, I’ll be a little less bored.
I really like History of Islam in Senegal and Resolutions of Conflicts in West Africa. I’m learning about things that I’ve never learned about before, or at least not in this detail. I’m finding that what I learned in International Law last semester is really helpful for Conflicts. Also, these classes are going to be great because we’re going on some rockin’ field trips. For Islam, we’re going to visit some mosques in the city, and for Conflicts, we’re going to a Red Cross center and, I think I understood this correctly, a refugee camp somewhere. That’s something I couldn’t do at UMass.
I signed up for my last class, African Cinema, once I realized that IFE wasn’t going to work out, so I’ve only been to one meeting. This class is nice because it’s not 3 hours of straight lecture. We get to stop and watch a movie in the middle, which is particularly good for this class because the professor doesn’t write anything down as he talks and he doesn’t seem to have planned lectures. I can handle that when the class is in English, but when I have to strain to understand what he’s saying in the first place and then decide on top of that what’s important, my notes tend to be a little sparse.
I have very little reading and very little homework that’s due every day. Most of my classes have one big project or presentation or paper, which means that, for the time being, I have a lot of downtime that I don’t really know what to do with, and I’m actually a little bit bored. I have heard things about people adding internships or volunteer work to their schedules while they’ve been here, so that might be something for me to look into.
Fail Train to the SuperBowl
Those of you concerned about the party with the Marines, fear not. It didn't quite work out the way we thought it was going to.
As usual in Dakar, none of us really had any idea what was going on, even the one girl whose happiness was dependent on this night going well. We spent about an hour walking up and down the deserted Corniche at midnight looking for either Club American/Atlantique (turns out, they were the same place) or the Marine House. Once we figured out what was where, we went to the Marine House because there had been pictures of candy and soda on the fliers, and there were no Twizzlers to be had at the club. Once we got to the Marine House, however, we realized that there had been some false advertising, or the word really hadn't gotten out. The only people there were a few marines and their families, including small children, and it was not the kind of party we were expecting. They were even showing a special military broadcast of the game, so it didn't have any of the good SuperBowl commercials. We left at the end of the first half and went home.
So, Mom, relax.
As usual in Dakar, none of us really had any idea what was going on, even the one girl whose happiness was dependent on this night going well. We spent about an hour walking up and down the deserted Corniche at midnight looking for either Club American/Atlantique (turns out, they were the same place) or the Marine House. Once we figured out what was where, we went to the Marine House because there had been pictures of candy and soda on the fliers, and there were no Twizzlers to be had at the club. Once we got to the Marine House, however, we realized that there had been some false advertising, or the word really hadn't gotten out. The only people there were a few marines and their families, including small children, and it was not the kind of party we were expecting. They were even showing a special military broadcast of the game, so it didn't have any of the good SuperBowl commercials. We left at the end of the first half and went home.
So, Mom, relax.
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