In Which I Repeatedly Make a Fool of Myself

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....