Well there we were, sitting together, staring at one another, the Senegalese students and the American students and a couple of teachers. The teachers said, "Ummm.... this is the ice-breaker." Long silence.
Us: "What do we do for the ice-breaker?"
Teachers (exchange looks of desparation) "Ummm, well..... sometimes the students suggest ice-breakers?" (their voices rise on a hopeful note.)
Another long, painful silence. Things had been pretty warm when we were chatting pre-class. But now the ice-breaker had arrived, things were getting postively glacial. I decided to speak up before the Ice Age rolled in. "I know a game, Two Truths and a Lie....." which is pretty much the lamest ice-breaker ever, if you've ever played it. But if people get into it, it can be kind of funny. Plus I wanted to stop the world from being overrun by saber-tooth tigers and wooly mammoths.
I'd like to tell this story as if I was the hero who saved the class from a great big pile of awkward. But in my own story I am not so much the hero as the poor guy who gets to slip on all the bannana peels. If I didn't find laughing at myself a refreshing exercise, I'd be pretty miserable. The truth is, I took a turn and listened to a couple of other people take theirs when someone RUSHED in and said, "Charlotte! Charlotte!! Charlotte!!! Your luggage is at the airport! You have to go right awaaaaaaaaay!!!!!" This struck me as rather strange. You see, the entire previous day I'd been saying over and over, "My luggage! My luggage! Oh dear oh goodness gracious me my luggage!" And everyone told me over and over, "Just relax, its not a big deal, we can take care of it anytime...." So I'd gotten into this sort of relaxed mood. And suddenly it was the most important thing that I leave class and retrieve my luggage that very instant. But I decided to go with the flow.
They sent a kind, sweet tall guy with me to bargain for taxi fares and carry my giant bag. When I arrived there I was all in a fluster. Stressed and hurried and worried like a typical American. I found a sign I thought I recognized and asked the guard by the door (who was listening to music on a little radio) "Ca c'est la porte pour les baggages? Puis-je passer?" (This is the door to the luggage? Can I enter?) He said something I didn't understand and I started to panic internally. "Aaaaa! Aaaaa! Am I at the wrong door? Why won't he let me in? Aaaaaaaargh!!!!!" I put on my confused face, and on the third repetition I got what he was saying. He was saying I had to rap to the music he was playing before I entered the door.
I leaned back and laughed heartily, releasing pent-up panic and hysteria. Then I put my hands on my hips and shooting a coy glance at him, said flirtatiously in French, "I don't think THAT is part of the regulations for the reclamation of baggages!!!" It seemed to be the correct response, because he and the dudes who were hanging out with him laughed, and I was allowed to enter. We had a fun time getting the baggages home, what with the taxi driver abandoning us three blocks from my house, disgusted by my inability to remember where I lived. But don't worry; we found my house after we wandered around with the giant baggages awhile. Big Dave (the person who helped me carry them) is an angel.
So that was dramatic, eh? Anyhow, we got the cultural orientation I'd been waiting for that same afternoon. A very nice fellow named Oussmane (the program director) briefed us on most of the stuff I'd been wanting to be briefed on. (Thank goodness!) Apparently the Senegalese ethic of sharing is very strong. When you have something, its considered the worst of bad manners not to share it. But even if you have to share with everyone, everyone shares with you. So it all works out okay.
Oussmane told a story of coming back after working in Britain and giving some money to his grandmother. But he only had a little money to spare. The grandmother asked him to go to the bank and break the bill he'd given her into small change. "Why, Grandma?" "So I can share it with my friends." "Why would you give it all to them? I barely gave you enough money for yourself!" The grandmother explained that she'd often been in really bad shape, only to be saved by gifts from her friends. So she makes a point of giving to them whenever she can. "And so," concluding Oussmane, "I guess, living and working abroad, I'd begun to forget the ethic a little." My nice new classmate Benson had a look on his face like, "Wow!" during the story. When we were chatting he'd mentioned overconsumption of resources, so I guess this is what he came to Africa hoping to hear. I enjoyed seeing his look of "Wow!" If it was really a look of WOW and not just the stunned, open-mouthed exhaustion of jet lag.
We're a diverse bunch, we Americans: Sydney, the anthropology / women's studies major, who is so sweet she would make a wonderful Grandma; Pete the journalism / political studies major who is very intense about grass roots organizing; Benson, the environmental science major trying to explain how coorporations are evil in the somewhat bad French of the extremely exhausted; Cody, the dreadlocked alternative medicine / sustainable development major, a soft-spoken guitar-strummin' music lover; and Jessica. What can you say about Jessica? She's majoring in food (sorry, in Agricultural and Animal Science) and whenever she enters a room she slams the hand of every person in the room, asking them loudly how they are in ten different languages. (Well, I exaggerate. Maybe just three.) When Pete said that a country could "choose not to be part of globlization," and we started looking for polite ways to tell him he was wrong, the sparks of debate were flying across the room, I guess. And Jessica looked between the combatting parties, grinned and said gleefully, "Well, this is fun!" I think she loves debate. She's also the kind of person who tends to take charge of whatever situation she finds herself in. However, she is both generous and competent, so you can't resent her for it.
She told us a story about being in a village and learning the Wolof word for "butt." She was with friends, and they decided the best thing to do would be to shout their new-found vocabulary word over and over at the top of their lungs. One of the Living Routes people heard them, came over and gave a ferocious lecture. "You represent America! What kind of impression do you think you're giving!" They got all contrite. Then they went into the courtyard, where they found Jessica's African family, who had been watching the whole exchange, laughing their heads off. THEY got the joke. So I guess America's reputation was saved after all. I don't think America has a very good reputation anyway.
Although I may have poked a bit of gentle fun at the Living Routes, in truth I LOVE their whole learning philosophy. I'm so glad I picked this program to study with rather than a more "normal" program. Our classroom is in the Global Ecovillage Network Senegal Headquarters. (GENSEN.) When I heard the name, I imagined a GIGANTIC high-tech building full of conference rooms. Instead, it is a pleasant place, about the size of a large house with a garden out front, and a sign advertising the sale of organic fruits and vegetables. Archways lead into a pleasant courtyard. I got very excited when I saw the bannana tree. To me, bannana trees symbolize EXOTIC.
On another note, some random dude tried to sell me a dead fish the other day. He was sitting on one of those little horse-drawn carts that are not much more than platforms on wheels, chatting with our maid, and he offered me a nice moist bulgy-eyed fish, which I politely declined. Well, I wasn't going to put it in my pocket, or munch it raw on the way to class. But the fish I ate tonight could have been the twin of the one I was offered. Except it was brown and shriveled from being fried, and staring up from my plate with a forlorn little smile. I find that I dislike reminders that my food was once alive. And avoiding all the fish bones takes concentration. But its so delicious!!!!!!!!!
I noticed a little sandwich stand when I was wandering around the other day which was called, "Chez Barack Obama," (Barack Obama's house.) Apparently it was put up shortly after his inaugaration. I think its funny that the Senegalese are cashing in on the magic of Barack Obama's name. Everyone here is very excited about him.
Our sustainable development teacher is this nice old man in a green robe who speaks in a resounding voice and waves his hands around in an impressive fashion. I like him. Whenever he speaks, he fills the room with energy. He had to scold the Senegalese students, though, for talking less than the Americans. Maybe they're not used to seminar-style classes? I know the university they come from is a really big one, so maybe that's the case. We Americans, we'll open our big mouths on whatever idea we have, stupid or not. Sometimes you get smart by being willing to look stupid.
At the end of the class, our teacher asked us what we thought of his teaching style. I complimented his energy. Then there was a long pause when no one would comment. Then Big Dave (my luggage angel) raised his hand and said, "I think you are a good teacher. I have just one problem with you. You're too old." There was a moment of confused silence and then everyone burst out laughing. There's Senegalese humor for you. Age is respected and valued here, so that comment wasn't offensive, it was just amusing.
There are some ways in which the Senegalese seem Frenchy. For example, one girl dropped a kiss on the cheek of the girl sitting next to me, Aissetou. (In French you call them bises.) Aissetou touched her cheek where the kiss had landed, and then touched my cheek with the same finger. Then she said, "There! I share my kiss with you! The Senegalese are so sharing, they share everything, even their kisses!" I was enormously pleased. Now, that was NOT French. Even when French people kiss you, they have this fluttery stand-offish air.
Tommorow we're taking a tour of Dakar. Stay tuned for more news....
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
First Day's Impressions
After a night of flying, I was told that my new name would be Fatou Samb and collapsed into bed at 7am. I slept until 10:30, when I was awaken by the shouts, shrieks, giggles, and assorted brangling of guess what-- a recess. We are right next to an elementary school of some sort and Senegalese kids can create even more of an unholy racket than American ones.
I love my host family, although they're not exactly what I was expecting. Mostly its "Papa Samb" who has been looking after me, making sure I'm comfortable and know how everything works.Although Mama Aita has cooked some delicious meals for me! They are retired people and have seven adult children, but five of them live and work in Ohio. The two that are married live in the house with us, which seems like one of the nicest houses in the neighbourhood. They have a maid who cooks and helps clean. I can have great French conversations with any one of them, but when they talk among themselves they tend to speak Wolof and I get left out. However, they are all very friendly and intelligent. Papa Samb was a teacher and then a "directeur du jeunesse et du sport," which as far as I can tell is a goverment official responsible for.... youth and sports? I still haven't quite figured
it out, but he showed me little pictures of him wearing a suit and speaking into a mike at international conferences. He set out a nice little breakfast for me and hovered over me making sure I had everything I needed. I find that I like being mothered by a Papa.
Breakfast is pretty much the only meal that works like an American one. The traditional Senegalese style of eating is much more fun. Basically, you put a tablecloth down on the living room floor, put a couple of sheets of newspaper on top of that, and then put a gigantic plate (like a circular cookie sheet) on top of that. Then four or five people will all eat out of that gigantic plate.
If you're being REALLY traditional, you scoop it up with your hands, but we used spoons. Today for lunch it was spicy rice with random tubers scattered here and there and a big pile of fish in the middle. There were four or five different sauces that we could dib or dab over our portions as we liked. One person made it her job to break off little bites of fish and distribute them evenly among all the eaters. If they wanted you to eat more, they would just shove more onto your section of the plate. I like it better than American-style eating. It just gives this nice community feeling to the meal.
School-wise, we didn't get to really do anything today except meet our classmates. Living Routes is just a mite disorganized. A lot of random teachers and admin wandered in and introduced themselves, but I didn't really get BRIEFED like I was expecting to be. No, "Welcome to Senegal," no "this is what dangers to expect," no, "this is what you should start planning for." JUst, "Ummm, let me go print out some schedules for you..." Then I get handed this schedule for the week where all the days are blank except for tommorow. Because tommorow is the only day they've planned so far...
My new friend Jessica says its just the African way. And yes dad, I can just hear you muttering, "that's why Africa never gets anything done!" But clearly, if I expect to know what's going on and have schedules and have everything planned, I've come to the wrong place. Everything is on a very informal basis here. I'm expected to just go with the flow and live in the moment. And since "going with the flow," is something I practically never do, maybe its time I learned it!
Jessica is my classmate who came for the January term. Which means she got here a month ahead of us and knows everything. She loves sharing information, so I received plenty of briefing from her. But you know, its kind of disquieting when the ONLY briefing you get is from a fellow-student and the adults don't say anything more to you than, "Hello." It was Jessica who took us on a tour of Yoff after we finished chatting with our African classmates at the GENSEN headquarters. (GENSEN = Global Ecovillage Network Senegal.) The Senegalese students, by the way, are awesome. I think all of them are majoring in English, and they're all really smart. There are eight of them and six Americans in my class. Rumor has it there was going to be about twelve Americans before the economic downturn hit.
I honestly think Africans have the most beautiful smiles. They seem to smile not only with their whole face, but with their whole being. And they say nice things too. When groups of people meet, they laugh for no particular reason. They just laugh for the sake of laughing, and it makes me feel very happy and relaxed.
We were having a conversation about the pros and cons of learning from books vs. learning from life. Jessica said she learned so much Wolof just demanding the names of random objects as she drove down the street. I said that sounded much better than sitting in a room memorizing a vocabulary list. Jessica said, "erm, you need both," and than Emmanuel, a nice African student, said, "But if you only learn from books, there's no heart to it." "No heart to it," expresses perfectly what I think is wrong with our school system.
Cody and Pete, the other two Americans who arrived today, seemed like nice fellows.
Although, like me, they were walking around in a blurry state of exhaustion, so it was kind of hard to tell. Jessica took us on a brief tour of the neighbourhood, which is called Yoff. One thing I hate, absolutely HATE about Africa, is all the beggars. That sounds harsh, but if you were here you'd understand why. Maybe I'm just too flustered, but when a pack of beggars converges on me, I feel like I'm being hunted by a pack of wolves. They just keep on shouting at you, and you can't get rid of them by being polite. They try and shake your hand and talk to you and if you say, "Sorry, not today," they just keep following you angrily shaking the bowl and shouting in your ear. Some of them are begging on behalf of the marabout, the religious leaders. Jessica disapproves, saying that she doesn't want to give them money if its all going to some marabout.
Arriving in the airport was total hell by the way. They lost my baggages and I sat there waiting forlornly by the conveyor belt for the longest time. Then, while at the peak of exhaustion, I had to describe my problem in French to the airport authorities, who finally told me to come tomorrow and look for my bags, which I sincerely hope are not gone forever. My French gets progressively worse the sleepier I get. But this was merely annoying. What was upsetting was the terrible hordes of young men who converge on you offering you services, "carry your luggage," "call a taxi," etc. etc. Even when you tell them no they DON'T leave you alone, just keep hounding you, these crowds of people all of them clamoring for your attention and telling you what to do. Maybe you will laugh at me for being so
easily intimidated, but I felt a bit like they were going to eat me. The people who were meeting me were really hard to find as well, so I felt pretty forlorn and abandoned temporarily.
I was still feeling tired and upset when I got up in the morning, but getting to see the wonderful sights and sounds of Dakar really cheered me up. Well, Yoff is technically a suburb of Dakar, and much more neighborhoodly than city central. To picture Yoff, just imagine a city that is one giant back alleyway and you'll get the general picture. Of course, the streets are wider than alleys, but they all have sand instead of pavement, and they are full of children playing and families shouting, young men hanging out and people playing soccer and stuff. They feel ALIVE in a way American streets don't. There are little shops, but if feels more like a farmer's market than it does like a mall or a downtown. As well as lots of trucks, there are a fair number of horse-drawn carts, although the horses look pretty sickly and I feel sorry for them. I don't feel sorry for the goats-- I saw a group of them running down the sidewalk towards their dinner with an almost dog-like excitement. The Senegalese students laughed at me when I got all excited over a herd of cattle walking down main street. Everywhere you go there is so much to look at. Do you remember that part of the movie Aladdin where the princess Jasmine visits the market for the first time? That's totally what I felt like, and
that's a bit what it looked like too. Maybe certain people would have turned up their nose at it, but I LOVE it. I love how every building looks like it is the back of a building. I love the wrought iron grillwork and the random arches and the hibiscus flowers and the walls with actually rather decorative pieces of broken glass sticking out of the top to discourage thieves from vaulting over them. I love how smelly it is; all sorts of good smells and bad smells mixed up together, kind of like the way C.S. Lewis describes the smell of Taashban.
But the best part of the day was the ocean. True, the beach was covered with garbage except for the bit they cleaned up for tourists. True, there are these gigantic dead fish aptly named stonefish (they actually LOOK like stone fish statues) that you can't step on because they're full of deadly poison, according to Jessica. But the ocean is surrounded by a triple or quadruple layer of frilly waves. No matter how messy people are, the ocean always seems to me so big and fresh and clear. Seeing sparklingness stretch THAT far out always makes my heart soar. I ran out and danced in the surf while the others watched in amusement, (completely soaking my skirt, which was a bad move, let me tell YOU.) Together
we poked at a dead jellyfish, marveling at its blobular transparent goo. And there were so many birds! So close! No seagulls, strangely enough; instead of those, Africa has hirondelles and sea hawks.
Its also fun to be speaking French instead of English all the time. Wolof is nice to the ear, but it pisses me off that I can't speak it. I'm told that French is the language of work here, and Wolof is the language of play and family. And I only know French. Figures. I wonder if I can persuade my family to speak French instead of Wolof at mealtimes. I mean, right now they could be talking about me and I wouldn't even know! Ha-ha.
But at least my host gift of art supplies appeared to be a success. Since there were no children in the family, I held back the kid stuff and just gave them the high-quality artist stuff. Luckily enough, both of the daughters were into painting, and they knew enough to see the supplies were really nice. I felt satisfied when I saw one of them holding up the paintbrush to her eye and stroking the bristles; I knew then that my gift would be used and appreciated.
As far as my house goes, it is far from the "Wilds of Africa." It has wireless and a Playstation and a TV that seems to be always running but nearly always ignored. Honestly, the vibe I get from it is not so much Africa as "Victorian England," or whatever the equivalent period was in France. Doilies draped over flowery sofas, that sort of thing. I get to sleep in a four-poster bed big enough for five people, covered with yellow velvet in a rose motif. Pete and Cody get to live in a house which fits in much better with my idea of Africa: mosaic-tiled courtyard with potted plants and tiny running children and cool, shadowy rooms with water-stained walls. I want to be jealous of them and then I remind myself that I have wireless and they don't.
The part of my house I like best is the prayer nook / room, which is covered with matting and is covered by a skylight. The sunshine which pours in through it brightens up the entire house. (religious symbolism much?) They made a big deal of reassuring me that they didn't mind me being Christian. (Il y a du tolerance en Senegal!) It seemed simplest just to nod and smile. Then they did their whole standing and bowing, kneeling and bowing thing together in a pre-lunch ceremony. I squashed the American in me which finds something incredibly funny about butts being repeatedly stuck in the air, and tried to take the whole business seriously. Watching them, I began to see the point of praying that way, how the repetitive motions could serve to calm, clear, and even focus the mind. (Heh-heh! Butts!)
I love the way Senegalese women dress, such bright colors and such big jewelery, wrapping brightly colored pieces of cloth around their heads in dozens of different creative ways. It looks a bit like their heads are covered with giant mutant flowers. Some of the men dress in these brightly colored gowns and trousers too, but not all of them.
The children are cute too. You see them everywhere watching wide-eyed or playing these elaborate little games that take a lot of imagination to understand. I think children are given a lot more freedom than in the U.S.A. and this whole kid subculture has developed. The children clearly have their own world, their own politics, their own power struggles. Maybe you think that's a bit of a leap to make after only a day of observation, but I thought I saw it.
Wish me luck finding my luggages. Homesickness is working pretty much the same way it always works with me; when I'm doing nothing in particular, I feel miserable, then when I get busy or find something cool to look at I forget all about it. Mostly what I feel is really overstimulated. Its just so much at once. I feel like its all flying in one ear and out the other.
I love my host family, although they're not exactly what I was expecting. Mostly its "Papa Samb" who has been looking after me, making sure I'm comfortable and know how everything works.Although Mama Aita has cooked some delicious meals for me! They are retired people and have seven adult children, but five of them live and work in Ohio. The two that are married live in the house with us, which seems like one of the nicest houses in the neighbourhood. They have a maid who cooks and helps clean. I can have great French conversations with any one of them, but when they talk among themselves they tend to speak Wolof and I get left out. However, they are all very friendly and intelligent. Papa Samb was a teacher and then a "directeur du jeunesse et du sport," which as far as I can tell is a goverment official responsible for.... youth and sports? I still haven't quite figured
it out, but he showed me little pictures of him wearing a suit and speaking into a mike at international conferences. He set out a nice little breakfast for me and hovered over me making sure I had everything I needed. I find that I like being mothered by a Papa.
Breakfast is pretty much the only meal that works like an American one. The traditional Senegalese style of eating is much more fun. Basically, you put a tablecloth down on the living room floor, put a couple of sheets of newspaper on top of that, and then put a gigantic plate (like a circular cookie sheet) on top of that. Then four or five people will all eat out of that gigantic plate.
If you're being REALLY traditional, you scoop it up with your hands, but we used spoons. Today for lunch it was spicy rice with random tubers scattered here and there and a big pile of fish in the middle. There were four or five different sauces that we could dib or dab over our portions as we liked. One person made it her job to break off little bites of fish and distribute them evenly among all the eaters. If they wanted you to eat more, they would just shove more onto your section of the plate. I like it better than American-style eating. It just gives this nice community feeling to the meal.
School-wise, we didn't get to really do anything today except meet our classmates. Living Routes is just a mite disorganized. A lot of random teachers and admin wandered in and introduced themselves, but I didn't really get BRIEFED like I was expecting to be. No, "Welcome to Senegal," no "this is what dangers to expect," no, "this is what you should start planning for." JUst, "Ummm, let me go print out some schedules for you..." Then I get handed this schedule for the week where all the days are blank except for tommorow. Because tommorow is the only day they've planned so far...
My new friend Jessica says its just the African way. And yes dad, I can just hear you muttering, "that's why Africa never gets anything done!" But clearly, if I expect to know what's going on and have schedules and have everything planned, I've come to the wrong place. Everything is on a very informal basis here. I'm expected to just go with the flow and live in the moment. And since "going with the flow," is something I practically never do, maybe its time I learned it!
Jessica is my classmate who came for the January term. Which means she got here a month ahead of us and knows everything. She loves sharing information, so I received plenty of briefing from her. But you know, its kind of disquieting when the ONLY briefing you get is from a fellow-student and the adults don't say anything more to you than, "Hello." It was Jessica who took us on a tour of Yoff after we finished chatting with our African classmates at the GENSEN headquarters. (GENSEN = Global Ecovillage Network Senegal.) The Senegalese students, by the way, are awesome. I think all of them are majoring in English, and they're all really smart. There are eight of them and six Americans in my class. Rumor has it there was going to be about twelve Americans before the economic downturn hit.
I honestly think Africans have the most beautiful smiles. They seem to smile not only with their whole face, but with their whole being. And they say nice things too. When groups of people meet, they laugh for no particular reason. They just laugh for the sake of laughing, and it makes me feel very happy and relaxed.
We were having a conversation about the pros and cons of learning from books vs. learning from life. Jessica said she learned so much Wolof just demanding the names of random objects as she drove down the street. I said that sounded much better than sitting in a room memorizing a vocabulary list. Jessica said, "erm, you need both," and than Emmanuel, a nice African student, said, "But if you only learn from books, there's no heart to it." "No heart to it," expresses perfectly what I think is wrong with our school system.
Cody and Pete, the other two Americans who arrived today, seemed like nice fellows.
Although, like me, they were walking around in a blurry state of exhaustion, so it was kind of hard to tell. Jessica took us on a brief tour of the neighbourhood, which is called Yoff. One thing I hate, absolutely HATE about Africa, is all the beggars. That sounds harsh, but if you were here you'd understand why. Maybe I'm just too flustered, but when a pack of beggars converges on me, I feel like I'm being hunted by a pack of wolves. They just keep on shouting at you, and you can't get rid of them by being polite. They try and shake your hand and talk to you and if you say, "Sorry, not today," they just keep following you angrily shaking the bowl and shouting in your ear. Some of them are begging on behalf of the marabout, the religious leaders. Jessica disapproves, saying that she doesn't want to give them money if its all going to some marabout.
Arriving in the airport was total hell by the way. They lost my baggages and I sat there waiting forlornly by the conveyor belt for the longest time. Then, while at the peak of exhaustion, I had to describe my problem in French to the airport authorities, who finally told me to come tomorrow and look for my bags, which I sincerely hope are not gone forever. My French gets progressively worse the sleepier I get. But this was merely annoying. What was upsetting was the terrible hordes of young men who converge on you offering you services, "carry your luggage," "call a taxi," etc. etc. Even when you tell them no they DON'T leave you alone, just keep hounding you, these crowds of people all of them clamoring for your attention and telling you what to do. Maybe you will laugh at me for being so
easily intimidated, but I felt a bit like they were going to eat me. The people who were meeting me were really hard to find as well, so I felt pretty forlorn and abandoned temporarily.
I was still feeling tired and upset when I got up in the morning, but getting to see the wonderful sights and sounds of Dakar really cheered me up. Well, Yoff is technically a suburb of Dakar, and much more neighborhoodly than city central. To picture Yoff, just imagine a city that is one giant back alleyway and you'll get the general picture. Of course, the streets are wider than alleys, but they all have sand instead of pavement, and they are full of children playing and families shouting, young men hanging out and people playing soccer and stuff. They feel ALIVE in a way American streets don't. There are little shops, but if feels more like a farmer's market than it does like a mall or a downtown. As well as lots of trucks, there are a fair number of horse-drawn carts, although the horses look pretty sickly and I feel sorry for them. I don't feel sorry for the goats-- I saw a group of them running down the sidewalk towards their dinner with an almost dog-like excitement. The Senegalese students laughed at me when I got all excited over a herd of cattle walking down main street. Everywhere you go there is so much to look at. Do you remember that part of the movie Aladdin where the princess Jasmine visits the market for the first time? That's totally what I felt like, and
that's a bit what it looked like too. Maybe certain people would have turned up their nose at it, but I LOVE it. I love how every building looks like it is the back of a building. I love the wrought iron grillwork and the random arches and the hibiscus flowers and the walls with actually rather decorative pieces of broken glass sticking out of the top to discourage thieves from vaulting over them. I love how smelly it is; all sorts of good smells and bad smells mixed up together, kind of like the way C.S. Lewis describes the smell of Taashban.
But the best part of the day was the ocean. True, the beach was covered with garbage except for the bit they cleaned up for tourists. True, there are these gigantic dead fish aptly named stonefish (they actually LOOK like stone fish statues) that you can't step on because they're full of deadly poison, according to Jessica. But the ocean is surrounded by a triple or quadruple layer of frilly waves. No matter how messy people are, the ocean always seems to me so big and fresh and clear. Seeing sparklingness stretch THAT far out always makes my heart soar. I ran out and danced in the surf while the others watched in amusement, (completely soaking my skirt, which was a bad move, let me tell YOU.) Together
we poked at a dead jellyfish, marveling at its blobular transparent goo. And there were so many birds! So close! No seagulls, strangely enough; instead of those, Africa has hirondelles and sea hawks.
Its also fun to be speaking French instead of English all the time. Wolof is nice to the ear, but it pisses me off that I can't speak it. I'm told that French is the language of work here, and Wolof is the language of play and family. And I only know French. Figures. I wonder if I can persuade my family to speak French instead of Wolof at mealtimes. I mean, right now they could be talking about me and I wouldn't even know! Ha-ha.
But at least my host gift of art supplies appeared to be a success. Since there were no children in the family, I held back the kid stuff and just gave them the high-quality artist stuff. Luckily enough, both of the daughters were into painting, and they knew enough to see the supplies were really nice. I felt satisfied when I saw one of them holding up the paintbrush to her eye and stroking the bristles; I knew then that my gift would be used and appreciated.
As far as my house goes, it is far from the "Wilds of Africa." It has wireless and a Playstation and a TV that seems to be always running but nearly always ignored. Honestly, the vibe I get from it is not so much Africa as "Victorian England," or whatever the equivalent period was in France. Doilies draped over flowery sofas, that sort of thing. I get to sleep in a four-poster bed big enough for five people, covered with yellow velvet in a rose motif. Pete and Cody get to live in a house which fits in much better with my idea of Africa: mosaic-tiled courtyard with potted plants and tiny running children and cool, shadowy rooms with water-stained walls. I want to be jealous of them and then I remind myself that I have wireless and they don't.
The part of my house I like best is the prayer nook / room, which is covered with matting and is covered by a skylight. The sunshine which pours in through it brightens up the entire house. (religious symbolism much?) They made a big deal of reassuring me that they didn't mind me being Christian. (Il y a du tolerance en Senegal!) It seemed simplest just to nod and smile. Then they did their whole standing and bowing, kneeling and bowing thing together in a pre-lunch ceremony. I squashed the American in me which finds something incredibly funny about butts being repeatedly stuck in the air, and tried to take the whole business seriously. Watching them, I began to see the point of praying that way, how the repetitive motions could serve to calm, clear, and even focus the mind. (Heh-heh! Butts!)
I love the way Senegalese women dress, such bright colors and such big jewelery, wrapping brightly colored pieces of cloth around their heads in dozens of different creative ways. It looks a bit like their heads are covered with giant mutant flowers. Some of the men dress in these brightly colored gowns and trousers too, but not all of them.
The children are cute too. You see them everywhere watching wide-eyed or playing these elaborate little games that take a lot of imagination to understand. I think children are given a lot more freedom than in the U.S.A. and this whole kid subculture has developed. The children clearly have their own world, their own politics, their own power struggles. Maybe you think that's a bit of a leap to make after only a day of observation, but I thought I saw it.
Wish me luck finding my luggages. Homesickness is working pretty much the same way it always works with me; when I'm doing nothing in particular, I feel miserable, then when I get busy or find something cool to look at I forget all about it. Mostly what I feel is really overstimulated. Its just so much at once. I feel like its all flying in one ear and out the other.
Monday, January 26, 2009
On the Eve of Departure
My father cooked all my favorite foods for dinner tonight. Mom reacts violently against the suggestion I leave any object out of my bags, even though they are crammed to the bursting point. She is convinced I will pine after anything I leave behind. My brother Peter is being bizarrely affectionate, even offering me the loan of his treasured hat. My brother Richard told me to stop ignoring the people around me and get off the computer. I put the laptop down and squealed as obnoxiously as possible, "Looks like someone needs a hug!" and advanced towards him with arms outstretched. His response to this was to effortlessly put me in a headlock and start shouting in my ear. In short, everyone is acting odd. Well, my family is pretty odd anyway, but they're a different kind of odd from usual.
I think they feel strange about me leaving for the "Wilds of Africa," even though Dakar is hardly a jungle. Packing for a semester studying abroad in EcoYoff (a suburb of Dakar) is scarcely different from packing for any other long trip. Atypical items include malaria tablets, water-purifying gidgets, an electrical adaptor for my laptop, and a gift of art supplies for my host family. I also have to keep the clothes I pack appropriate for a Muslim country (since the Senegalese are pretty laid-back, this mostly means not showing knees or cleavage. No burkas necessary!) Also my nifty little newly purchased netbook (squeal) with a built-in webcam. I can scarcely believe that I'm leaving TOMORROW, I've been planning for and anticipating this event for so long.
I picked Senegal for my semester abroad because I wanted to study abroad in an Ecovillage. I'm convinced a global lifestyle shift to ecovillages and other types of intentional communities is the way to save the world. Much is wrong with mainstream industrial culture. We are obsessed with producing and consuming, and leave too little time for what is truly important. I think we need to realign our priorities. Our energies should go into building social relationships, expressing ourselves, creating things, and finding things out. But the way American society is currently structured makes living a healthy, creative, community-centered lifestyle very difficult. This needs to change. We've got to jump off the consumer culture bandwagon and rediscover the art of living. Forgive the little political philosophy rant (I know some people roll their eyes when they hear this.)
Living Routes (the UMass organization I'm signed up with) has programs in ecovillages all over the world. I simply signed up for the Senegal one because I wanted a chance to practice my French. The French department requires a semester abroad from all its majors anyway. I'm excited, and yes a little nervous. I find myself freaking out over the oddest things, and figure its just supressed emotional pressure bubbling up. I'll be writing my next post when I've had time to gather some impressions of the country, so be prepared for exciting stories (I hope!)
I think they feel strange about me leaving for the "Wilds of Africa," even though Dakar is hardly a jungle. Packing for a semester studying abroad in EcoYoff (a suburb of Dakar) is scarcely different from packing for any other long trip. Atypical items include malaria tablets, water-purifying gidgets, an electrical adaptor for my laptop, and a gift of art supplies for my host family. I also have to keep the clothes I pack appropriate for a Muslim country (since the Senegalese are pretty laid-back, this mostly means not showing knees or cleavage. No burkas necessary!) Also my nifty little newly purchased netbook (squeal) with a built-in webcam. I can scarcely believe that I'm leaving TOMORROW, I've been planning for and anticipating this event for so long.
I picked Senegal for my semester abroad because I wanted to study abroad in an Ecovillage. I'm convinced a global lifestyle shift to ecovillages and other types of intentional communities is the way to save the world. Much is wrong with mainstream industrial culture. We are obsessed with producing and consuming, and leave too little time for what is truly important. I think we need to realign our priorities. Our energies should go into building social relationships, expressing ourselves, creating things, and finding things out. But the way American society is currently structured makes living a healthy, creative, community-centered lifestyle very difficult. This needs to change. We've got to jump off the consumer culture bandwagon and rediscover the art of living. Forgive the little political philosophy rant (I know some people roll their eyes when they hear this.)
Living Routes (the UMass organization I'm signed up with) has programs in ecovillages all over the world. I simply signed up for the Senegal one because I wanted a chance to practice my French. The French department requires a semester abroad from all its majors anyway. I'm excited, and yes a little nervous. I find myself freaking out over the oddest things, and figure its just supressed emotional pressure bubbling up. I'll be writing my next post when I've had time to gather some impressions of the country, so be prepared for exciting stories (I hope!)
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